Words go unsaid.

Words stay sheathed, remain hidden, defy all coaxing and promises of glory.

These words are in my head, I know they are, but what use is my word when the others are lined up like soldiers in Shi Huang Di’s tomb, waiting for command.

Waiting for use; waiting for labour.

There was a time when I’d sit at my desk for eight, nine hours and write. Those nights I would fall into a blissful sleep, taxed in a private and emotional way that nothing – not even sex, not really – ever simulates.

This is why I sometimes avoid the weekend newspapers; see those wonderful, talented columnists flaunt their wordplay, and rightly so.

I need to stop being jealous.

Even if, in this case, the jealousy prompts the words; they bubble up to meet their green, insidious master. I will batten them back down.

Right after I finish this post.