Writers' Block

The tentacles of my thoughts thrash about, desperate to grasp onto something.

The something is elusive.

As the suckers of one long limb approach their goal, like an unyielding lover it vanishes around a corner in a flash of red, lost forever.

If I'm not careful, these writhing, living branches will knit themselves into the most horrible tangle and I'll never think straight again.

Would it help to apply gin?