And there's not a well in sight.

There's so much to say but nothing will come out. Like when the fire alarm at school goes off and people are attempting to push their way through the doors every-man-for-himself style, so no one makes it. Instead of doing the intelligent thing and organizing, everything gets jumbled up and some things get trampled and left behind. Survival of the fitest.

The flood gates have opened and not one drop is seaping out, and this thirst, this dry tongue, is waiting for the words to come and wet these lips again with the crisp taste of creation. And I know that one drop will do the trick. One simple word or thought will bring the moisture back and give me the power to speak again.

But nothing comes. Nothing. So I'm left, lying in bed writing about the only thing I can at the moment. The thirst.