Unproductive. There's the word.
A part of my brain is now castigating itself for not working hard enough - where is my short story entry to the Palancas? Where is my poetry? God, I haven't written anything worth posting properly (and that doesn't count all the bits and pieces of so-called "poetry" that's been cluttering up your web browser for the past couple of weeks) that I can actually be proud of. My brain has now switched into its Automated Writing mode, which pretty much translates to: Command me. I am yours to write. Everything has been reduced to an equation, an X equals Y kind of phase. Where are the knots and tangles of my narrative?
("Nowhere," says a little voice inside my head. "You killed them.")
Not even Leandro is helping. I look at him, and watch DVDs instead.