The writing bug - revisited

In so much that the previous post did not make it clear: contrary to what I have announced on this very blog a week since. I am one of those idiots seeking to distil a plot from thin air and not being able to close my eyes for the shortest of naps as  long as my word count is under par.

%sigh%

Any source of caffeine or inspiration is most welcome.

A month ago, coming within three years of my third decade on this planet; I thought myself (and not before time) too old to be falling in and out of bubbly love and unreasonable hate with every change of season. Too old to chase after cute specimens of my kind, too old to still want and desire.

And yet there is hope in my heart. Unfounded delirious joyful hope where all hope should be crushed, dead, extinguished. Hope.

As a wise men said:

"Yes, McCoy. Hope is a human emotion. But after many years in their
continious company I can't escape being tainted. And hope is an emotion I will
not be ashamed of, considered it is turned to good."*

* attributed to Mr. Spock, more or less