Through the fog they come drifting in and out. I strain, stretching my fingertips towards them, aching to capture the will-o’-the-wisps before they slip into the night. But they dance just out of reach, leading me over the tangled roots and mossy undergrowth of my mind. I follow, brushing away the branches of distraction, determined to capture them. I’m so close. They pause in a misty clearing, as if waiting for me, finally ready to accept my claim upon them. At last! The words flow and sentences form. I push up my sleeves and rest my fingertips on the old metal keys, preparing to type the words I’ve struggled to find. But alas. There is no paper.