It's ahead of time, you see. There are chores to be done before art, and once I get to art, the moment is lost. There have been thoughts or hip-side notepads and ink pens ready for when inspiration strikes like the whip against a dead horse, but I don't think it'll work. Humph.
Have I become more poetic in my old age? By the time my ancestors were my age, they were dead, so maybe they had the same stories in their head as well.
Bleh. Sol Niger, coming up.