Sometimes I don’t write anything for a long while. As if I am saving up my letters, and gathering them into a garden of words. Not until they’re ready to bloom do I have the chance to express them. As those words grow and fruit I reap the harvest of their essence. I crush them down into thick pulp and gather their dewy sweet juices. Only then may I sip their muse, and sometimes, as if a drunkard, spew it back into the world. The pulp however is a much overlooked but precious refuse. For from the crushed and broken meat of inspiration spring the seeds to start another garden. Perhaps less melancholy than my own.