Words flow out of me like a pipe has burst in the middle of a cold winter, like a downpour has filled a creek to overflowing.
Words trail behind me like clothing I've taken off, like crumbs from a snack surrounding me on the sofa in front of the television.
Words enter in a flood from this information glut, this black hole of content, and I drink them in and let them flow over my skin and down onto papers and into coded impulses stored in invisible files.
Ideas hover over me, as before creation, seep into my sleep, as if to drug me, and drag at my ankles when I walk in the morning.
I try to train them, but I'm not the most disciplined person myself. Instead, they overwhelm me and I resort, revive, rescind, retreat into music -- with no lyrics.
I think I might be getting the hang of this, now, after almost 50 years of practice and work that has sometimes been mistaken for skill and perception.
I sympathize with James Joyce, empathize with Stephen King, but really I am clueless still.
Help me rein in this rude flood, both before I take it in and as I let it out.
If I am not helped soon, I may drown, giving up at the last moment, and reverting to pre-verbal states. I may be seen waving from beyond the surf, while stray thoughts still slide onto the sand with each marching band of surf. Then I will be seen no more.