The notes flow through my brain constantly.  They rip, they roar, they tear, they push and prod.  They are not mine.  They never are.  I want them, inside me, beside me, like a lover, like a friend, I fear I'll never create such beauty.  I could sing for eons and never have words of my own flow from my mouth.  It pains me, sickens me, pushes me further and further back.  Where does it come from, is music created, or is it just, there?  Like a god or diety, it always has been.  Or like a god and diety it never was, only made up, by some crazed and insane brain who thought they'd never see such things brought to light.  Melodies flooding, bringing life and death and happiness, and sadness.  Make me remember, make you forget.  I can hear it now, wrapping it's way through my consciousness, each verse of the music a new vine, each word a new leaf.  Portions poison, portions the most rare and beautiful flower.  None the less not owned by me, it's not my flower, it's not my poison, no matter how badly I crave it, or wish it, or write and sing, it's never mine.