The narrator

What do I write about now?

I sat there on the edge of the bed

And wondered...aloud or not

I am afraid I do not know.

Is there anything I haven't said?

Is there any way I haven't written?

They move briskly, these wild horses

Bridling such notereity isn't easy come.

Their passage is way too swift

For my old calloused grasping...

Yet I endeavor such a thing.

How dotty on my part, I know!

Now for that one story to tell

Shall I choose the antagonist?

Or pick the usual protagonist?

Let's run amok, with the wilderbeasts

Stay tuned on neither but just the

Incognito! It would be a nice variation?

Of the oddball, of the misfit

Could be an all too familiar meadow dweller

Or a queer shadow of existence in dark caverns.

Then it comes to me, sitting there on the edge,

Of my bed, mattress assuring stupendous fantasies...

I try too hard, I said aloud, the story unfolds naturally when it has to.