At what point do you lose interest in a project, process, poem or piece of work? When is your imagination no longer engaged or involved in the wonder of the muse or the moment? Do you tuck the work away, as you have done with so many things, with the thought of revisiting at a later date? Do you give up entirely? How did this mood manifest itself when, at one time, you were more than optimistic about where you were going? You were motivated. It mattered at one time. What changed and why?
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