The writer hummed a melancholy tune. She was losing her words, and she didn’t know why. She dreamed in full colour, but every time she woke another word had disappeared. She needed the words. They’re what bound the dreams to paper.
So she went to the place where she knew they slept. The book was old and tattered, but its words were as eager as ever to spring from the page.
She cast her net wide and far. She would catch all the words she could, and this time she wouldn’t let go.
(Written for Tale Weaver #125: of the writerly persuasion 22.06.17)