It's there. I can feel it. My creativity has been running a mile a minute with hardly a breath between ideas and feelings, not stopping even when I beg. But the thing I'm running for is like the carrot that hangs in front of the donkey to make it walk. Only this carrot is something huge and moving, and its magnetism on the soul is painful as it maintains its distance. So I mold, mold, and remold, but with that one key piece missing. I reach long, hard, the sounds banging around between two eardrums so full of ideas that I spin, spin on the balls of my feet and tap, tap on my temples until the depth of harmony is just to shallow to realize what I know is there. I try, but there is also trying too hard.

I'm moved by the presence of what could be.