muse [myooz] –noun
1.classical mythology.
a.any of a number of sister goddesses, originally given as aoede (song), melete (meditation), and mneme (memory), but latterly and more commonly as the nine daughters of zeus and mnemosyne who presided over various arts: calliope (epic poetry), clio (history), erato (lyric poetry), euterpe (music), melpomene (tragedy), polyhymnia (religious music), terpsichore (dance), thalia (comedy), and urania (astronomy); identified by the romans with the camenae.
b.any goddess presiding over a particular art.
2.(sometimes lowercase) the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker, or the like.
3.(lowercase) the genius or powers characteristic of a poet.

everyone has a muse. and if they don't, they should. it's interesting who you come across that can inspire you. that inspiration can drive you to create beautiful art, or it can drive you to destroy it, and everything in between. i think a good muse should do both. a muse, whether a he, she, or it, should be polarizing. it should grab hold of you and pull you apart in opposing directions. a muse should make you want to tear your hair out, yet at the same time bring you comfort. i think that sort of force creates good art. no, not good art, but great art. great art explores as many facets of human emotion as possible, both exploiting it and emboldening it.

my muse has been the same for as long as i can remember. she's always sort of been there, mostly in the back of my mind, sort of eating away at my subconscious. never really letting go. when a muse knows they are your muse, it can get complicated to say the least. trust me. ultimately though, a muse should outlast the physical self. in the end, the memory of a muse is just as good, just not as biting as the truth of it, for memory is not truth. any real police officer can tell you that.

at any rate, i've written some more so here's another snippet:

Elton gets out of his bed and makes his way to the stereo. He scratches himself through the boxers. The city noise filters in through the window into the small room. Sean watches him from beneath the covers, the pillow bunched up beneath her chin. Her eyes examine him thoughtfully. He turns on the stereo, sets it to blast. She makes a noise and covers her head with the pillow. There's a letter for him by the door, no doubt slipped under it the night before from the hotel manager demanding another couple hundred dollars for the week. He goes into the washroom and jerks off to the image of the girl on the shampoo bottle. Her head is tossed back, her eyes a flutter and her mouth is slightly parted. Her "O" face. When he's done, he goes to the mini fridge. Sean is sitting cross-legged in a chair in a matching pink t-shirt and panties, with an open jar of peanut butter in her lap. She's digging at it with her fingers. He's always hated that. She looks at him and doesn't say anything as she licks her fingers. Then she mentions that he looks like he's lost weight.
- What?
- I said you look skinny. Are you bulimic?
- Do you mean like you? Or was that anorexic? I can never tell the two apart.
- Don't say that, Elton. Why'd you have to say that?
- You opened that door.
- God, you're so mean.
- Hey, I'm sorry if you don't have an eating disorder. They're like Chanel handbags. Everybody's got to have one. Surprised you're not in on it yet.
- Fuck you.
- I'm just kidding.
- That's not funny. People die from it.
- People die from car accidents too.
- That's also not funny.
- No, what's not funny is if your pants no longer fit you. That's a tragedy. He looks at her. That was another joke, babe.
- You weren't joking. She sticks her finger into the peanut butter and sucks on it. Defiant. He's got his head in the fridge, refusing to look at her. She says, I'm not a savage. He then looks at her and his eyes wander down to her belly. He grabs a beer and walks away. She looks down at her stomach. It's a little rounder than she remembered. She frowns and tugs on her shirt, pulling it down to hide her roundness. She looks at the peanut butter and shoves it across the table.
- I need some more rent money.
- I don't have any.
- Why don't you call your dad?
- Why don't you get a job?
- Your dad's loaded and he loves you. That's like a rarity or something these days.
- Don't you find it emasculating that I pay for everything? I thought guys cared about that.
- Jesus. Forget it. He drops himself on the bed and stretches out on it, staring up at the dimpled ceiling. He rubs his thumb over the lip of the beer bottle.
- You can't live here forever.
- My god, he sighs. Are you still here? Sean gives him a dirty look and starts looking for her clothes. She says under her breath:
- You're a pagan. You don't deserve God's name on your lips.
- It's a figure of speech.
- Still a pagan. You're gonna rot in hell.
- If wishes were ponies, babe. If wishes were ponies...