eleven.

I have nothing to write.  Yet I want to write it so very badly.  Now.  I set aside this time before my eyelids sunk with the exhaustion of lengthening hours and meaty lists of tasks to check for my own leisurely unfurling.  And yet.

I draw a blank.

That is an interesting phrase to me--it is impossible to draw blankness.  In the way an artist might draw a picture, I mean.  And I suppose that's the ironic purpose to it all.  When you are drawing nothing you aren't really drawing.  You are sitting at a desk, tapping your eraser against the hard wood and shaking your leg in frustration before a page pleading for the contribution of your creative tatooing, still unmarked.  You are poised with your fingers over a keyboard, an unlimited combination of letters and spaces and punctuation at your disposal--and yet they can't be compelled to force down a single symbol.  

Thoughts wink at me seductively, starry and inconsistent enough.  I can't see them long enough to put them down on paper before the light goes out again.  On again, off again.  

Flash!

I buy too much music.

Light!

We create Zion.

Asterisk!

If you add ghetto slang to juvenile sentences it makes you sound older?

Zap!

I have a goal to say only good things about people that is hard sometimes.

Thought!

I am Homework Kid--it says so on my cape.

Notion!

Sam Beam is a beautiful man.

Something!

Maggot face.

N o t h i n g .