My writing has felt rather lackluster lately. It is sluggish in form, either losing count of its steps or clumsily tripping over itself. I can hardly write with accuracy, let alone with serene sophistication, now. My thoughts are scattered and my words are in unending conflict. That swiftness with which I once wrote, that graceful glissade of the pen across the paper, has been lost. And I mourn the loss. On many such nights, where the heart is most alive, have I attempted to rekindle that swiftness and grace. But as with dances all of kinds, these traits cannot be forced. They must come naturally; acquired suddenly, miraculously, through a constant and diligent practice of the art. That is the miracle I am hoping for.