Block again.

Every image that takes form in the grey cells looks like something I'd seen before. Every idea that crosses my mind seems to have been said or talked about before a hundred million times.
Blame it on lethargy or plain lack of inspiration, it is not happening today. The owl is wide awake. Looking at a hazy image of itself in the mirror at the other corner of a vast expanse. The bed light gleams in depressing blue, the same blue that looked like a source for the revival of senses just last week. The spacebar gives trouble functioning and my thumb thumps it after every word. Wish I had the power to change this futile brain as quickly as I could think of changing this out-dated machine. A Mac. A Viao may be, in avacado green. I am partial to green be it the deepest bordering on black or the palest leaning towards off white. Green - the color of life! Which gets me back to a lifeless state of mind.
A book, a short story, a little passage or just a sentence may be?
Why oh why?
Block - something that happens to non-writers as well, I realise!