“The pen is the tongue of the mind,” wrote Horace.
It scribes from experience and the imagination, ricocheting from one neuron to the next.
Sometimes it takes years to write a lyric. The frustration of waiting on its arrival is the art of gathering string.
We are always chewing over something and turning out blanks of progress. The sentence is already there, dormant, waiting to bloom. The lyrics are phenomenally written, waiting to be sung!
It’s quality of the connections that make eureka-moments feel so elusive. Fragments take time to make whole.
Simple and beautiful — thoughts are not born from the recipes of artificial intelligence.
Discovery dawns on us like a spark of randomness, but only if we challenge ourselves to get to work.