The insatiate itch of scribbling.

Still, I may have been glad to scratch the dry surface of our day-to-day peaceableness the way Violetta had clawed the sere crust on her limbs, anything to get something bright and liquid flowing again, out in the open and slippery between our fingers.

Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound; She feels no biting pang the while she sings, Nor as she turns the giddy wheel around, Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things.

Countless the various species of mankind, Countless the shades which sep'rate mind from mind; No general object of desire is known, Each has his will, and each pursues his own.

I definitely have the screenwriting itch.

The Seven Year Itch