"Withered leaves collect at my feet." -from the song Memory from the play Cats.
You would think I would be worded out, I drain them, I wring them out. Twisting their letters to get another drop, emptying out my mind of every drop. But yet when I turn over and close my eyes, there they are more thoughts imprinted on my eyes. Written in the vivid ink of my memory, what a relief it would be to lose all memory. Creativity all tapped out would be sad, left without anything else to say I'd be sad. -MMB