Sometimes, the words just don’t come. For days, they spin in a spiral that just seems to pull them deeper and deeper under the skin, so that it’s almost painful to wrench them out.
So they lie there, quietly, not doing any harm or good. And over time they are buried under the layers of words that are said, and the heavy sediment of all that is heard. Perhaps they will be fossilised. And who knows, one day an adventurous soul might just stumble across the impressions of the books we could have written – and the people we might have been.