There is a tune out in the night, and the moon is a fat whole note squatting beneath a fermata. It is the last harrowing note of some dread opera, with the violins screeching madly, and as the volume swells, the wispy clouds are blown into the darkest parts of the sky.
I am waiting for inspiration. Waiting and waiting, bracing myself for some bone-shattering revelation. The bell tolls for me. But for me inspiration has always had an ebbing pulse; it is a slow, oozing creature that takes a while to get anywhere. There are no bolts from the blue. Just long stretches of clear weather and a line of a horizon you have to squint to see. I have my eyes scrunched up and am trying to see it now, trying to move closer to it.
I am so friggin tired. I can’t even believe it.