CREEP IN OUR EARS; SOFT STILLNESS, AND THE NIGHT*
Words jump like Mexican beans around the inside of my head all day; most of them dry up and lie twitching long before I have any chance to let them out, let them live, set them free. I would think that my brain must be full of the desiccated husks of thoughts that never became words, words that were never used, ideas that sprouted but alas, died on the vine. Each morning seems, however, to start fresh, a fertile ground for new, tiny germs of big ideas, polysyllabic words, sounds, fragments of song; a veritable plethora of images imprinted on...