The trouble with my Muse is that she
is never on time. I labor all day to find her,
to hear her sweet voice, but what do I get for my labors? Silence.
She never shows up when I most need her.
She is not a morning nor an afternoon person.
Throughout the day I get lost, swallowed by
a thousand dead ends and distractions and I hear
not a syllable from her. She always shows up
at the most inconvenient and unholy hour —
two AM, to be exact. At which time she will then dump
onto my mind a load of beautiful, or at least
potentially beautiful, things, and she will then
drag me across the floor of my brain and pull me
into the wee hours of the morning so that I may
sleep late and wake up late and spend
the rest of my day in total dissipation.