I fumble with the language; fascinated by the arbitrary influence that intoxicates those who drink from its spiked chalice.

Words come slowly.

To reference Nietzsche, I am beginning to imagine that as I stare blankly at the blank page, it stares blankly back at me. It could care less about my present dilemma; even as my catatonic expression belies a struggle taking place between the furious thoughts inside the brain within my skull.

Yet, the wordless slate welcomes our blather with equal apathy as it does our insight; and invariably fulfills its mute function as the canvass upon which our minds deposit the epiphanies and leavings of their consciousness.  

I fumble with the language; fascinated by the arbitrary influence that intoxicates those who drink from its spiked chalice. Indeed, words are the carriers of ideas, they are the vessels of thought. Words are limitless and perpetual. This lavish aspect offers us the utter and irresistible temptation to which we inexorably succumb as we squander written speech in a frenzy of gratuitous literary expression.

The preceding paragraph clearly demonstrates this.

But occasionally we must aspire to transmit our thoughts with a wit and elegance of sorts, and this elusive ambition is achieved with no small measure of tolerance and tenacity. Let the words come at their leisure.

Thoughtful preparations have been made for their imminent arrival.

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