As I long and pine to write with the easy-going flow of Tasha and the lyrical prose of Jim, I delete thousands upon thousands of insubstantial words about talking hamsters and wise wood stoves.
I can't do it.
I try again, but my sweet, wise narrative ends up as a lusty love scene involving naked aliens, so I blank the screen once more. Then, bereft of thought and hope and will, I notice cassandra's naughty bits. (Readingly, of course.)
My muse yodels, cartwheels, and then sends my fingers into a dizzying flight of purple prose.
Begone, O Eroto; it is searingly unfair that your lasvicousness invades even the quiet refuge of the written word. I seek a nimble muse, a quiet muse, a reflective muse; the heir that Zeus and Mnemosyne could not birth.
My muse, what be thy name?