Maybe my thoughts are a bit scattered, but a harder shake tells me my head's empty. What do you call a writer with nothing to write about? What do call a writer whose purse has emptied of words?

Do you picture some scruffy kid staring at his ice cream on the pavement? Do you picture some elegant queen at the broken window of her stolen treasures?

The echo in here is killing me. It's my own voice way at the bottom.

With her head on my leg, Lily looks up and blinks.