When my mind is ill at ease I often force myself down in front of the keyboard, hoping that out of the turmoil something will creep out. Perhaps something that bites and spits in every direction without any distinction or sympathy for anyone. Something perhaps that coils in the shade, bright colours indicating its malicious intent, but tempting all the same. In spite this, it is mine. I gave birth to it and am bound to it by the strong bonds of maternal affection. I will defend it should people raise their voices or hands to strike it down. I will look at it and think that there is a bit of me in its eyes and that its mouth is shaped like my own. Out of hurt, it came into this world. And has to learn to look out for itself, if I am not or no longer around. My child must seem malformed and emaciated and, it is true, will never grow beyond a point. Its progenitor lies in darkness, forever pregnant and mothering both fliers and crawlers, with ever-increasing attritional effort. Each time, it gets more and more difficult. The dream is that the children may spawn colonies elsewhere in new fertile lands.