AN IDEA IS LIKE A GHOST

My prose from the Charlie Dicken's Quote:

"An idea is like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself"

It's unforgivable, tight pants, frays and a waste basket flowing over with thoughts, opinions, and things that could possibly fly on wings. It was nearly impossible to joke while they were all around pouring out, no space, nor time. It was all for nothing those years in the mirror trying to force out scenes from broken fragments of ideas.

That's all they delight to spare. They almost turned me mad, would laugh at me in unison, "look at that stray flax, looking to steal us, turn us into far-fetched inventions." They stare at my naked body as I would dress, and then never explain themselves nor of their actions or intentions. For Pete's sake, they were only the ghosts of my pants pocket, the ghosts in the mirror...whom I would tempt and whisper to, holler at, even who's guts I would dare squeeze, but they would just grin only grin. And grins I cannot stand, especially those deep seeded grins to which only ideas could dare boast such monstrosities. Sweat often makes me cold... and forces my eyes to loosen, and sometimes a heartbeat I would hear. But then they'd come back to taunt me once again Swimming all around me never daring to give me more than a moments to breath. The speedy little demons would pitter and patter, sway from being treasures set forth to blunderous flights to hell. The armless creatures, who for a sure shot, save themselves from my desire to extend them like putty, who I'd stretch long and thin mercilessly, with gritted teeth if I had the wits. They possess no hairs, but silly and arrogant ways of provoking me to the the sill of insanity.

So you see how devious ideas can be? The battle is rough and twists your mind like wet clothes needing a good ringing.

One day I was setting my frightfully long wool socks to dry on the fire's mantle. The stripes blinding, directly transported me to a world of candied mints and poplar trees that grew figs. Quite a stretch of the imagination, but it's what those poor socks were used for, wretched ideas!