These are bloodied skinless words, words pulsing live on the page, hearts beating. The white mug of coffee spinning slowly in cupped hand as eyes pensive watch the page, waiting. The next surge no doubt soon, and then, the cup stills and words jump forth. I read many words and spill many words and sometimes write but a few all the while hoping something emerges that will lean me back in the chair with a smiling sigh and sense, even momentarily, completion. Momentary only, because there are more words. Always more words.