Where do feelings go, when they evaporate? What becomes of desire, after it's been spent? I think I've asked these questions before.

It feels as if satisfied love cures the eternal need, which lies behind inspiration. No need for pretty words or poetry, when loneliness is split in two. But, for better or for worse, the muse has returned, and I think it will be staying with us for a while.

In sort, I've found myself once again trying to mend the pieces of broken expecations. It's a lost cause, really, yet practice makes perfect and I've become an expert in hopeless situations.

Maybe I've said that one before, too.