Oh, writing, wherefore have you gone?

I beg the muse to come to me this night. Quietness instead invades. Perhaps a better friend, muses are often mistresses that cause much grief and I, being no stranger to said grief, could use reprieve.

Though I miss the words that used to flow forth from my fingers. I miss the thoughts that more easily came when pen was in hand or hands were on keys. These days everything stays bottled up inside until the dam starts to crack and then slowly explode. Explosions are not delicate. I guess I'm not either.