pen, sieve (Yes, okay it's a JK Rowlingism, but it's such a good one. )
I've been full of thoughts, heavy thoughts, thoughts like rain clouds - dark, blanketing and strangely comforting. And when I'm full of thoughts my first instinct is to reach for words to drain my overburdened head. Today, though my thoughts are refusing to preciptate into words. I could shoot bullet points at you like hailstones, but that would be spiteful. I could lose you in a freezing blizzard, but what would be the sense in that? We could both get lost in the snaky sentences of blinding fog, but that's so boring even when it's done for some grand stylistic purpose (yes Mr Dickens, I'm thinking of you).
I'd like to caress you with a light mist, refreshing like sea spray; drench you like a tropical waterfall so that you feel invigorated by reading and when you stop and look around everything sparkles - but today isn't the day it's going to happen. Today, all I can hope for is that the thoughts remain clouds; that the rain doesn't start until I'm alone, safe, at home; and that when it does there's a sheet of blotting paper to soak it up.