Some mornings I got up compelled to write. These last few, not so much. Things came tumbling out on occasion. The last few days have not been so. The words hide. The ones that come don't group so well. There is no idea behind them.
Consider the word, story. If there is no idea there is no story. Memory is another. They jumbled in one upon another clammering to be brought to light. Now I look behind every tree in the forest of my mind without finding a one. Having to hunt for them was never necessary. One after another they came running and jumping screaming me! me! me next! Not even an echo of such screams bounce around.
Since they are not there I have nothing to write. Perhaps it is over.