Sunday, February 03, 2008

Writing is hard.

All the accoutrements are in place.
My lamp shines bright, the clothes have been put away, the night is long.
And yet, no words come.

As if these were to be willed and would come, as it were, of their own accord.
As if.

I lull myself into non-existence and stare at the keys on the keyboard. And think slowly and softly of the past year. Of interviews and people and music and noise and the three lamps dangling from the ceiling in my old apartment. Of leaving this in the middle of the night to enunciate vowels and oversee calls.

The worlds will come. The words will come. They must.