I gather up the words. They are everywhere.

On table tops, in the deep recesses of my mind, written in foggy breath on winter windows, behind the curtain, on scraps of paper, taped to the washing machine, magnetically clinging to the refrigerator, etched in black ball point inside matchbooks.

I gather them, carefully considering each one.  They beg so. Distractingly.
Pick me. Pick me, one squeals.
I say, “You are a noun.”
And it screams, “I could be an adjective if you work hard enough. If you are creative enough you will weave me into the flow, feed me to the hungry bowl of story, gulping back millions of us everyday.”

And I say, “Whew. Hold on. Let me get another cup of coffee first.”
They do not wait. They show no concern for my requests. They follow me into the kitchen heckling me with each step, dancing through my brain in repetition.
I stop at the coffee pot and say, “Naked is not how the character feels.”
Naked retreats.

The others hurl themselves at me like pieces of hail.
Open. Ready. Exposed.
“Okay”, I say. “Exposed is a possibility. Maybe.”
I wag my finger.  “Maybe.”
They dance a jig, each letter jiggling against the next. They howl with delight.
“Do not get ahead of yourself,” I demand. “This is not carved in stone.”
They shudder, then roll into a single file line. I laugh.

The words. They are so easily impressed.

– Lis Anna-Langston