Fickle is the Muse's favour, Alighting in the minds of but a lucky few. Like the furtive fluttering of gossamer wings, It tickles the senses and awakens one's sleeping spirit To endless possibilities and effortless creation. Until it takes flight, seemingly on a whim, As if it never was, leaving us wanting. Leaving naught but a terrible lack, an absence, An endless drought of ideas that stretches on and on. Oh, but to be at Inspiration's mercy, To walk that line between its benevolence and its indifference, What a dreadfully wonderful place to be!