Le Mot Juste

...inspiration from 'Preludes' by T.S. Eliot Loose leaves rustle. The grey light of evening dips and sways. Evening birds bleat their lonely tattoo. Gone are the jays and the wagtails, the burnt-out end of smoky days. No fancy gadgets, just a jar of pencils newly sharpened. The clatter of a typewriter haunts the silence, like a woodpecker seeking for nutrition, finding little. Curtains flutter. She's shabbily dressed and thin. A lonely candle sputters and she struggles. Notes and erasers jostle for space, still no inspiration will brighten her face. Coffee and cigarettes, vodka and tears, and none will curb her fears of ever grasping white from black, light from limbo, the curse of the damned, the neverland that has her clammed. One word, one spark of enlightenment nudges her back. Exhilaration wracks her, electricity whacks her like a sharp evening breeze, and her fingers are dancing all over the keys!