Write what nobody hears. Fill the page and turn it black. Fill a void, yourself, ambition, vanity, self-consciousness.
Pick up a pen do it. Have a notebook write it. Watch people. Note gender, size, age, hair color. Write it down.
Eavesdrop. Quote it. Don’t trust yourself to remember, you will not.
Expose yourself. Expose others. Observe and report.
Don’t swing at the ball. Swing where it will be. As if it’s not there. Discover that, indeed, it was. That is a home run, baby. A hole-in-one, nothin’-but-net, buzzer-beating crosscourt winner.
The truth is you don’t trust yourself. You want to transcend but hate to scrape and toil for it.
You fell in love with a cold chill, spine-descending, sleep drubbing, soul numbing. Paralyzed amputated imagination.
Throw up the windows now, the night is cool. The city hums. The whole ecstatic vibrating mess of it running out of steam. Moonless birdless cloudless only the flaccid post-rush-hour highway traffic tumbling from a distance. And the faucet drips and the refrigerator snaps to life, oh coils coils coils freon.
Oh You Know, Like Bruno 