There are days when I cannot do anything but write. It erupts out of me, like fiery lava bursting out of an active, yet dormant for a long period, volcano. It spills out of the cone and speeds down the slopes, crashing in a hellish fire of lava and ash in the valley below. Okay, enough of me babbling on about how it feels when the prose won’t let you out of its clutches. So, how was your day? 
- As imagination bodies forth
- The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
- Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
- A local habitation and a name.
- William Shakespeare
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Move over to Ireland and they will throw book deals at you!
I love the photo! How many people use a pen like that nowadays?
Will do.
Thanks! Nobody that I know for sure.
That is actually a part of a statue of Charles Townes, one of the nobleman of my town. He invented the maser and laser at MIT, I believe. 
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