May I have this dance? My body settles into slumber; my thoughts shed their drab workclothes. As Morpheus beckons me, my mind is pure. For these moments brief, I am truly me.

I want us to seal hands. I want to hear your every whisper. I want to giggle, to let mirth float us away. In this twilight, the impossible become the everyday.

Let your tongue tickle my ear. May your words give me enough purchase so that I may wake with them at hand. Let me write your gifts down and share them with the world.

===

Supposedly, one of the cardinal rules is to not write fiction about writing. I can see some reason for that - just as I can't really see what will work with the audience in general because I see fiction differently than they would, so would the wider audience not appreciate what it means to be a writer, even if I'm a neophyte.

That aside, the Fickle Muse is a fact of life for most writers. I greatly admire those who can sit down and write fiction without struggles with inspiration. For me, the best I have it is when an idea springs into being just as I sit, so it feels new and promise-filled.

Normally, the idea gestates in me for a while, having been seeded at some inconvenient time. During the interval between then and now, I've had too much time to think about how to do it, how to do it wrong, how to...

At any rate, this is one of the latter. I've had the idea for a while. Had it and lost it and refound it, so on. I'm writing it more as exorcism - if I don't, then it'll rebound inside my bitty kitty noggin.

Hope you enjoy it!