When the well of creation has run dry.
And all ingenuity depleted.
Grasping at all half-arsed concepts hoping.
The ‘needle in a haystack’ dilemma.
Against every odd, will bear some fruit.
And the gnawing compulsion to jot down.
Infantile ideas satiated.
The faint flame in due course is rekindled.
And flow of purest jet black is resumed.
Dreaming up tales with a renewed gusto.
Ideas reimagined and charged.
Anew, with full, vividity and drive.
Where the only worry left within is.
If i've left any work, part-realised.