I have metaphors and symbols skittering through my head.
The sky like construction paper cutouts.
My memories soaked in honey, artificially saccharine.
The bottom of my jeans wet, their dampness against my ankles reminding me of fresh air and the smell of grass.
But my eyes force me to push the abstract out of the way, to focus on the concrete. My fingers are heavy against the keys.
Instead, terms like "treatment efficacy", phrases like "moderate risk to re-offend", appear on the screen, highlighted by a blinking cursor that sneers at me.
The tick of the clock also taunts me. "It's nearly 2am," it scolds me. "Stop babbling on about literacy devices and get to bed."
The profound irony of all this is that when the words have time to flow again, my well is likely to inexplicably run dry.