I was wondering lately if The Muse—that beautiful magical woman who fills our heads with flowey stuff—is really just pent up sexual tension? It comes, it goes. It's fantastic, it's heartbreaking.
Or maybe—maybe, she's a lost gypsy walking door to door, and once in a while one of us answers, pen in hand.
Maybe she's the sun coming out through the clouds, reaching in through our eyelids into the synaptic pulses of desire.
Maybe she's the planets, circling in furious patterns; almost crashing, almost melding. Sparkling, distant phantom ideals.
I call mine Ferona, and feed her chocolate.