I sit each morning
Look at my empty notebook
The room is quiet
The air conditioning sounds like rain falling

Manic-depressive composer Robert Schumann
When he could not write
He´d get down on his knees and he would pray for help

It´s not as bad as eating your own liver
But still, I´d like to think that there are better methods

I try to tackle the page that lay before me
But then I drift off and think about the concept of ben-wah balls
I rouse myself and I finish washing dishes
Make lists of errands
Make all my phone calls
And then I pray for help

But each time I try to make a fresh stab
I end up just picking at an old scab