Passion that sticks below the surface, reaching for the air that it sees, begging and whining and scratching while a small but stable white picket fence holds it beneath the rivers of the brain. It's a maze, a winding cavern, endless and as round as anything tangible. In the core, there is a ticking clock that knows not time, but human nature. There is a little eye that has never seen even the smallest flower, but knows how to find any shape in clouds, any poem in a blade of grass.

And somewhere deeper still, in a dark little house in the winding cave of this place, a little black pen is always scribbling onto a piece of pape that will crumple itself in seconds if it is not cared for by a pair of hands that are often forced to ignore it.

There is sometimes a breeze that carries no air, but pushes words in a language unheard by human ears. Those words frighten and alarm the senses and hurry the pen to move, to write, to throw itself to paper like suicide.

The eye closes somewhere, and the blood rivers push at the picket fence, begging for air and relief while gaining none. Thoughts reach from an endless sky, and the hands that so often struggle to sort begin to pick the tattered words from the ground like wilting flowers. They save what they can, sometimes lifting wonderful thoughts as they die and rot and dissolve just like that. And amidst this there lies no warning, no occupants. Somewhere a music note from the outside world slips inside a blood river, helping to shove away the offending fence that stops oncoming passion. A place designed to destroy, rescue, and destroy itself. The rubble of a writer's mind.