Got Nothing

Things are fine. Contentedness; a god awful state to try to write anything. Things seem fair and righteous somehow, or at least I am not bothered by them. Terrifying. Vacancy, and I am not even drunk. Will remedy soon. But, for now, where is the injustice to stew over? Where is the strife? Where is the anger? Where is the beauty to counteract all those things? Must find. Must digest and contemplate, still nothing. A death spiral to crush. It is the most wicked thing...to have nothing worth writing about, and I am afraid I endure it with a dull agony that is oh so inadequate.