I stand on the edge of an infinite black pool. The waters which rest against the obsidian shores are so still that I can see my reflection. An ocean of undisturbed serenity, gleaming against a featureless gradient of grayscale sky.

It is time to execute my mission.

I dip my hands into the pool and watch the surface ripple outward in perfect concentric circles. The water is warm and pleasant to the touch, almost as if it were in equilibrium with the air. I wade gently into the water. A few metres from shore, the bottom of the pool flattens out into a floor, the water waist-deep.

I keep my hands submerged, spreading, hunting for my catch. Aha! I’ve caught one! I lift it out, above the surface. It is roughly the size of a salmon, its black scales glinting in the ambient light. It’s a very slippery creature, flapping around in my bony arms.

It turns to me and says, “Greenery.”

“No,” I mutter, “I don’t want you. Off you go!” I drop Greenery into the waters with a splash and it shoots away into the deep. I wander around for a bit until I feel a presence wriggle through my legs. I bend down and snatch it! It’s a hefty one. I expose it to the air.

It turns to me and says, “Vegetation.”

“Closer, but no cigar.” I let Vegetation go. Where’s the one I want? Surely it can’t be far from here. I had charted my course through Lexical Space with care. These waters must be brimming with them, first and second cousins of my quarry.

Another one! I hoist it up to the light.

It turns to me and says, “Foliage.”

Catching on the foliage? I ponder. Maybe you’ll do. Let’s take you to shore. I hold Foliage to my breast as I waddle back toward the specular obsidian island.

Then I realise, no! I already used you three paragraphs ago! Ah well. I guess I’ll let you go free for now. I heave Foliage back into the deep and venture outward again.

There’s another one. It knocks playfully against my leg, and I reach behind my back to seize it. That’s a slippery one. I toss it above the waters and catch it with both of my hands.

It turns to me and says, “Greenery.”

“Not you again!” Greenery glares at me and performs a gesture with its lame excuse for a fin, which I can only assume is the equivalent of flipping the bird at me. “Fuck you too,” I mutter to my accursed catch. Greenery shimmies contemptuously and flops away.

It’s only been five minutes, but I feel like I’ve spent hours frozen at my desk staring at the same unfinished sentence, the cursor blinking the seconds away in silent mockery. Jill leaned against the stone wall, her sweater catching on the what? Why is it so hard to find the right Word?