The mind-sponge is sodden with the tepid, grey dishwater of hope, fear and expectation, each grainule more pressing than the last. Fleeting glimpses of inspiration cling to eachother, oozing together into a pool of moments yet to be wasted, slowly dripping from the ear and collecting in the proverbial yellow bucket, to be stored away until further notice.
The sponge aches; every secretion must be deliberate, every drop moderated, every scrap of otherwise irrelevant fluid witheld or removed.
Yet left to fester, left without room to heal, or the freedom to squirm from sponge to sponge, such irrelevance becomes an acid that no generous amoun