The traffic, tires, late night talking, late night horns. Trying to work, get work done, the city's trying to stop me. A couple fights, another, there is screech after screech. And usually it's guidance, or fuel, or both. A shatter outside breaks something in me and then it all flows out. And then the work is done, but not tonight.
Silence, stars, the in and out of sleeping animals. That's my own heartbeat, that's the only noise. Everything has come full stop. No voices, no inspiration, only whatever's left in me. And I am only one of many in a thunderous void, I am alone and so are you. The work will not come. It's blank, and stays blank. It lies somewhere from silence to noise. Too little thinking is bad, but too much, that can be worse.
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