The Writing Infection
I have many names, but to most I am the distraction.
Son of creativity, once I infect you, there is no escape; your
body goes into slow motion as your mind races. I taste of
gold as I power my father’s machine. Touching all surfaces
of the brain, I push all idle thoughts out. No one has
ever glimpsed my presence, for I am faster than
a cheetah, and as cunning as a puma. I float in
on the mist, but I never float out.
I smell of grapes and history,
because I am the essence of the scribe.
I am as incurable as old age