Overture

A night at the typewriter, walking miles around the hot tin roof and landing face first in trite verbiage about feelings you don't yet know how to have. You sit in a room of voices and hear yours trip on itself, feel your skin boil and your insides turn themselves upside down. Days you wait, weeks, months, and when the moment comes you are at a complete loss for how to catch it; it slips through your fingers and later, in bed in the dark, you know there's no one else to blame. Swan Lake beats through your ear drums in ridicule, all deceit and eternal love transcendental. Piles of poetry build up around you and it says nothing of any use. You wish it would tell you what the hell to do.

You wish you knew how to hear the answer, if it came.