She sat quietly, trying to compose herself. To create herself as a symphony, as an epic poem, as a damned haiku. There had been a time when she had considered herself 'prolific'. The creativity poured from her then, keeping her awake at night and making her cranky when life interfered with the expression of it. Now, she sat quietly, willing it to come. Pleading with that deep reservoir in her to overwhelm whatever it was that was blocking her up. Creative constipation.