Night-time thoughts surround me--swirling, they envelop me...shifting, changing, changing, jumping, dancing too! Broken free from their cage in my brain, they think of what they want. Uncontrolled, uncontained, they terrorize those who witness, for in the morning they'll be gone: a memory of when they reigned. But now, they swirl in glittering mist like sunlight dashing through a fountainous spray, radiating rainbowy brilliance as a smiling child runs through it, hands raised before him to catch, then to feel, as he bounces them to his cheeks and tastes the rainbow with his teeth. It's disappointing how writing frightens it away. It is as if it is saying, "I'm here, gloriously, powerfully, but do not try to capture me. The pen is too slow, can't you see?" And it laughs. It laughs -- not cynically, but with mirth. I stop to enjoy it. "Come back to me!" I beckon and hesitantly it returns. Perhaps this time when I write it will stay. I draw out my pen and begin--passionately! Perversely. Despite its play it notices and withdraws in a flash. Blinded, I must stop. Even the dozen thoughts lined up and ready for paper have scattered. I'm at a loss. Frustration. It is always like this and I want it to change. So, I wait for another day. I wait for another night when dazzling thoughts decide to break free from their jail and overrun us. But it must wait. I must wait. The thoughts are not mine; they are their own.