Slowly, the words that have lost their way, hidden in the crevices of grey, are thumping back, returning in small chunks, to the amnesiac brain of mine. But they are now back with stands and legs. Not like the wings that they use to have when they floated around and came and gone as and when they liked. That is the freedom I use to have. They were plucked randomly off they boughs hanging richly before me. But now, they seem ripened and stable. Worthy more of comprehension. Without the freedom of floating and snuggling secretly into sentences to draw them in the mind with no effort.