I tried to subdue it in the humid weight and rank of the Indonesian jungle.
It grew thick and heavy.
I tried to starve it in the high windswept cold of the Rockies.
It grew restless and wild.
I tried to wash it away in the harsh infinity of the Pacific.
It grew ominous and deep.
I tried to purge it in the strain and violence of the desert wars.
It grew bold and grave.
Then, unhinged, I turned to face it.
And it hurled itself at me like a monster.
It was not a demon as I had supposed.
It was a longing. A thirst.
It is this pen. This paper. This ink.