​I am the worst kind of scavenger, entirely capable of catching something for myself yet choosing instead to circle and wait, watch idly until some other hunter has taken down its prey and then close in to claim the scraps. I am the worst kind of scavenger, picking lazily through inspiration’s corpse, discarding perfectly acceptable flesh for the choicest morsels deep inside, the ones still wet and warm, the ones that glisten in the sun and require no effort on my part to make beautiful or interesting. I am the worst kind of scavenger, surrounded by potential food yet choosing starvation over exerting even the most minimal energy required to obtain what I want.