It annoys me that it's been four months since I wrote my last song... for someone who does this for a living, this is a terrible pace. Nothing moves me anymore... I'd rather crawl back into my hole and stay in this deliberately chosen isolation until I get tired of the indoors once more.
I hate how it's so cold outside that it makes my head throb like a tired wall clock. I hate how I miss the feel of a cigarette on my lips as the smoke penetrates my every vein... Twenty days, and it's only now, under the cold, that I miss that warmth and that smell.
I grab my guitar but nothing comes. I used to have something to say about everything. Now, the words just sound like the crumpling of loose asphalt under my heels. The sirens several fire trucks speed off in the distance. I wanted to kick some movie star's ass earlier today, just for giving me a nasty look. I wanted to... but I was smarter than that.
And some people do write... but only out of ignorance. Judgment after judgment. Conclusion after conclusion. There is no art in the absence of logic... no guidance... the elitist way is always suspect. And some people try to sound intelligent by criticizing others... but they will never be able to offer an alternative... such hollow existence.
You sound like everyone else, they say... well, I have twenty thousand strong who will disagree... art is for the people. This is what I do.
It annoys me that it's too cold to be outside... and there's nobody to meet.
