I'm a captain of a a dinner cruise boat. A reporter, who was doing a story about the boat and the cruise company, came on board to talk to me. She asked "How far down the lake do you go on your cruise?"

I answered "I usually try to stay on the surface."

She had absolutely no reaction. She either didn't get it, or had no patience for moronic jokes. I choose to believe the the first option. 

"'April showers bring May Flowers,' at least, that's what my great aunt used to tell me." I stared up at the officer, or at least I tried to. Every time I looked up I looked into the light shining right in my face.

The man interrogating me shifted a little. "This ties into your confession how?" He queried. I knew he wanted to be here as much as I did; that is to say, he didn't want to be here.

"Well you see, sir," I continued, "My great aunt used to teach me when I was a child. I didn't go to a conventional school because my family was broke way back when. We couldn't afford tacos much less school books. So my great aunt would teach me and my sister how to do math, read, write, know history, and other general hit man skills." That got the attention of the officer.

"Your aunt taught you how to be a hit man?" He said not without some small amount of curiosity. "I thought you had said just earlier that all your family members had died long before you started being a hit man."

"I did say that." I replied. "You see, all my family members were dead before I became a hit man officially, but my great aunt taught me all those skills before I kil— before she died. What fun we had over those long summers down at her cabin. Middle of nowhere. We could do all sorts of things. But then of course she had to go bat-crazy. She went and stabbed my sister to death. And that, officer, is why I had to murder my great aunt."

The words are still there. They always are, they always will be floating in endless circles around my mind. But sometimes the connection between the words and my hand is muddled, tangled, clogged. The words stick together incoherently on the page when my hand manages to scribble down a measly sentence or two. Worse still is when I cannot persuade my fingers to type, write, or create anything at all. Focus eludes me. Inspiration is locked behind my forehead or creeps silently outside my door. I'm stuck. The words are sticky and I must wait until the fog clears and I can once again paint my perspective down upon a page.