I can't write. Not today.

I remember days, with a certain longing too, when I could sit and turn out half a dozen foolscap papers while the professor droned on about the intricate workings of the OS, a fact that partially explains the dismal grades in my systems courses, more than was usual for me in departmental courses. Days when I could thanklessly turn out a dozen poems , waxing eloquent on female(and in one slightly disturbing case, male) beauty, destined to do their bit in an equal number of happily-ever-afters across the length and breadth of the campus. So , you will understand that it is with a non too insignificant trepidation of what the future holds as far as the career in wordsmithy is concerned , do I inform you of my new found incapacity to forge a link between 'anon' and 'betwixt' . I dearly hope that it is merely a temporary one and that I shall find my feet of clay some fine morning- in a day, in a month , a year, I haven't a clue but strive to find them, I will- and when I do, it shall be a return with a vengeance rarely seen in amateur writing circles. But for today, let me rest for the mind is not calm and the hands quiver at the sight of my feathered quills, hanging morosely, parched of a spot of ink on its reedy spine.