The streetlight filters through the blinds, casting eerie shadows, accentuated by the inaudible drone of a forgotten "Murder She Wrote" unfolding on the television.   

My hair resembles Einstein's. My eyes imitate Joker's blackened ones. Rumpled blankets twist and tangle my body. The neon numbers on my bedside clock glare at me. 

It's 2:07 a.m., and sleep mocks me. My fragmented thoughts struggle with bits and pieces of a storyline, hoping to snag the perfect plot.  

My muse slips in without warning, and a rush of excitement stimulates me to stumble from my bed to the computer. Adrenaline surges through my veins, only to dissipate as quickly as it appeared.  

I sit blankly, staring at the monitor, fingers poised for typing, demanding - no, begging - to remember the thoughts that played havoc in my mind moments ago. Once again, a moment of lucid creativity escapes me. 

Dejected, I return to my bed, sinking deep into my cocoon of blankets, praying for something. Sleep? I think not.  

Writer's Block wins again, but I refuse to surrender. Deep within the cobwebbed corridors of my mind, the desire to write again is hidden but not snuffed out. Defeat will not be an option.