Spriteful Intellect.

My mind needs to hibernate under a blanket of old autumn leaves that have been sealed in with frost and ice for the winter.

Yet, all of these Words!

Dripping from my fingertips, they just want to speak...

...but not about my final. They don't wish to speak about the research I am compiling. I try to guide them into stating facts, repeating history, presenting information. And that is when they decide to pull the covers up under their chin, blink at me innocently, and croon with such wisdom,

"But we need rest, dear. Sabbath, sabbath. A little folding of the hands to rest..."

These Words are fair weather friends. Such fickle little things that must be coaxed and eased forward, rubbed and massaged, appeased and persuaded every step of the way. As if it is difficult for them - to sit there on a page, where they could sleep for the rest of eternity if they felt so inclined.

Perhaps my mind is just such a grass covered ocean of rose and violet that they are afraid of empty white paper. Yes, perhaps that is it.