Solitaire without direction, a room, late at night. A succession of high tone, r ail road shrieks in the distance.

A tiny desk, which destiny is the trash, seats close to me brandishing a superior attitude and ignoring my pleads for piety an d inspiration. A white satin monitor, and a keyboard too far to reach. A desk la mp that wears the words 'inverter desk light/DL-2701'; its rays of light streami ng down on me. I do not know if the blank screen will come out of its static state and hit me w ith its wrapped-at-80 columns. I wish I knew if the sort of writing that I am su ppose to do will work in any way. I dream to know when or if inspiration shall s how its parenthetic face. But I know that the part of me that insists on doing this won't go away. That pa rt of self inflicted insanity that gives no rest, and kicks the mind for not com pleting the task. The part that goes through imagination and types, and types, a nd types, and types; the words are invisible, but it keeps typing. Will it ever let it go? The feeling of writing nothing is horrendous. It's almost as if the brain tells me how brainless I am, how inspiration is out of my league; the inspiration belo ngs to smarter people. I am dumb in my way to doom. Stretching the fingers works not, and the litres of bitter coffee don't help either. It is the horrendous fe eling of writing nothing. The desk is black, the screen is white, and the brain is empty. These three thin gs combined stare and laugh, and laugh again. "WRITE SOMETHING, YOU DUMMY," they laugh and laugh again. Blackness, whiteness, and emptiness; they are my audienc e, and their laughs tells me I may have a future as a sit down comedian. I hardly move, but still I juice their laughs out.