That's kind of what this story looks like. In my head.

There are plot threads and setting strands and exposition filaments and dialog strings and climactic yarns of a hundred colors, lengths, shapes and thicknesses strewn about the inside of my creative mind and making them work is like an impossible puzzle. They're constantly running, playing out up there- I can see them clearly, bright and vivid and vibrant.

Most of them are excellent (if I do say so myself) and would make a perfect addition to the narrative fabric I seek to weave; some are smaller and better suited to a decorative tassel, while others are more elaborate and fit to be woven throughout the tapestry.

I know who the protagonist is and what he does, but I don't know how it happens yet. I know his friends and enemies and what their relationships are like but I don't know how they get there.

Hence, the dearth.

Apologies if you feel abandoned. It won't last.