On Some Days the Muse Will Not Cooperate

The grit crawled over his tongue, coming with the last mouthful of his morning coffee, and with no good place to spit he had no choice but to swallow it uncomfortably. The bitter taste jolted him out of a long but restless reverie, but the intrusion was not entirely unwelcomed.

Scattered thoughts and phrases had fluttered about for most of the morning, small nervous birds flitting in random arcs, offering only hints of color and indefinite form, never remaining still long enough for him to see them clearly and affix them in his mind.

The cold bitter winters of years past had remained...no. The phrase would not complete itself, and he soon became distracted by the view from his window, something commonplace which held his attention only until the next abstraction arrived. But that, in turn, would also dissipate, the cycle fruitlessly repeating.

No words of any permanence would come today.