Quits of Wisdom

When I have no idea of what to write my fingers kindly begin with 'there' as if pointing me to something right in front of my face, dangling like a snake from an apple tree, a quip of wisdom, which at the moment is seductively hiding in the weaves of ether and is beyond my mind's grasp.
There, there. My fingers strike the keys with familiarity, muscle memory, and an eager dog's tail wag. There the ther t there are. On and on, typing and deleting. I play a game of charades with my fingers, they must have their own consciousness, my brain must have delegated quite ingeniously. I am not good at charades, the last time I played it I answered 'The Longest Lilo and Stitch' instead of 'The Longest Yard' and I had to go through ChikkaStop, ChikkaLord, ChikkaGo before I reached Chicago. The tail wag has now lost intensity.
There, there. It has now become a pat in the back. The ether has thickened and the snake has slithered into its depths; the sinister whiteness of the virtual page is the evil twin to the pallor of my brain.
A cup of coffee. There, there.
There's always tomorrow to start writing.