Begone, Eroto

    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?


The End

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