- Well, here it is – a great agglomeration of nothing: staring into outer space, vacuous daydreaming, ill-mannered gawking. Of course, many associate it with a lack of imagination, or of being a lazy swine.
- Oh, were that the writer's/artist's/composer's mind always flowed with a fresh and vigorous cornucopia. Were that the pondering was ever productive. Were that the energy to complete rose spring sap-like upwards to the waiting fruit.
- Instead, useful thoughts take a break and wander off without so much as a by-your-leave. They leave behind an echoing skull through which not one atomised idea trundles down the track.
- On sunnier days thoughts tumble over each another with such alacrity that their catching is a near impossibility: beautiful butterflies scattered beside the motorway, drifting up and down with each current, to be netted before the inevitable splat on the windscreen of doom.
- But when the fog is about, there's nothing to do but not do.
- Discipline's friend may be a strong will, and fortitude steels the mettle, but if the cloud descends – so thick that sight cannot see even one foot ahead, let alone the knees – then tea, biscuits, a walk, a read and even a beer may still lead to nothing.
- But all clouds pass...
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