On Writing: the time of plenty

"So you want to finish this story?" the Muse asked.

"Yeah," I admitted cautiously. She was approaching me, advancing through the grass on hands and knees like a big cat ready to pounce on its prey.

"You'll have to make love to me, you know," she added, and  all I could do was look at her eyes--green and gold--and feel her diamond-hard nipples slicing my skin, starting at my thighs, rising towards my chest.

"I can't!" I protested, but she could see I was lying.  I felt every tiny stone on my naked skin, every blade of grass tickling me, I could hear ants crawling yards away and count the infinite hues of the blue sky above. It was too much, too much, I could never get it down on paper. "It's just one scene," I added, "just a very short one."

"Oh no..." she replied, shaking her head, her hair a storm of brown and copper curls, and I thought there certainly was a word to describe each different strand, and if only I could think of all of them. "No no," she continued, "I want this to last."