There is something here that I can't quite taste, something trying to get out of my brain, some obscure, and relevant, and original words that can't quite worm their way into my consciousness. This is my curse, to be blessed with a talent but be unable to access it. I have a power, but no knowledge of the mechanics of using it. I have things running through my brain and streams of knowledge that I can't drink from. What is clawing at the inside of my skull just trying to be heard over the screaming details of everyday life? Many things are fortunate but this is not one of them. I have an eloquence but nothing to use it on. My creativity is stifled only by the limits of my own imagination. I think of things, but they are only things that I have seen already in some shape or another from the minds of those smarter and better than me. flashes of Tolkien, and Twain and Poe, and Homer. All of these things I first think of and am deceived that they might be mine, but when the surface is scratched it is simply another copy of the great people that came before. Is there anything original left in my head?