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and every fair from fair some time declines

I'm working on a couple of things in my head, but I haven't put anything down on paper yet. I haven't even blogged for about a week. My mind is fertile, ready for the process of writing, but what I have is strange, gabbled nonsense, like this:

Say sage, he who stands on his head and with a queer smile waves at the crowds. Dewy stood on the chairs and rhymed his way across the room, concentrating each hop, from seat to seat, meters made by meter. The poetry he recited was that of Coleridge, the strange Rime.

So, yeah, that's what is coming when I try to write. Intriguing, non?

posted by September @ 1:23 PM