Write something, anything. Pierian or not, hold onto the pen; dare it drop. Stuck in vorfreude leaves me self-annoyed. Jamais vu, I’m no stranger to prompts; snapping the leash for a creative romp. The pen hasn’t smudged once. Flapdoodle, snickerdoodle, pillowed noodles on poodles. Good gracious, inscrutable. Rageous! I’ve taken two weeks, and my brains gone to mush. Slush; my schedule crushed-breaking the rules, no denying, there’s a rush. Resolution O’ clock. Be the story a drop, have yet to stitch together the final layer of plot. Dreamers of dreams, screamers of screams; selectively quiet muse, you leave me to bruise. If walls have ears and floors have eyes, does the ceiling taste for flies? Does matter trump mind? Writing anything to fill the slot, pathetic no? When the body is ready, but the mind’s gone to sot. Soil, recoil, my brains leaking oil; grasping at cobwebs of thought. There’s a horror chase in here and I’m the tropic heroine who falls over her own feet. There’s a shadow simmering at my back, breathing down my neck for fresh meat. There, the page is filled, after gaping like a cod with dry feet.