The words come and go. Start somewhere in the future, zip on their hellbent road to the past and somehow, somewhere between here and there, they get trapped in my fingers, tangled on the page.
They try to shoot across the barrier, diamond bright comets with trails of brilliance and pain.
And then they get stuck in my palm.
Before they know it, they are falling out of the mouths of my characters, weaving plot thread shuttles across a computer screen loom. Garments made from sun and moon.
Starlight, star bright, I wish I may, I wish I might create another tale tonight. One that keeps the children awake, that burns in the gut and twists like a snake.
