An illness washes over your body, reminds you of your limitations, the flaw of being biology. You're not only in your head, you think. It is an annoying reminder.
There is magic just beyond the reach of your fingertips, you're sure of it. At night, you dream of running and getting nowhere, you have the time to think that something isn't real about this but can't figure out what it might be. The answers elude you. The only thing you know how to do is sit down at a typewriter to figure it out, so you vow to.
Again, again, again, I will sit down at these keys, I will wear them down until all that's left is miracle, surely if I stick around something will come of it. These are the repetitions of a writer at the end of their rope, these are the fevered delusions of a madman, but you said you'd give it all away for just a morsel of poetry, did you not? Are these the morsels you bargained for?
The snowy landscape gives no answer in return. You cannot blame it. January wasn't made for unearthing that which has been buried in the frost.
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