This is somewhat terrifying: I am in the mood for writing, but I have nothing I want to write about. I envy writers that can make anything into a story of some sort. I cannot do that. I have done it before, but it seems harder and harder to write about nothing and turn that nothing into something. I need to meet more people and see more places, that’s what I need to do.
There are some options open to me; either I go north for a while and work with the homeless or I go south to Paris and do whatever there is available to do there. The bottom line is that I have no more money at the present and no input to create anything from, so I have to do something and I have to do it quite soon as well – the experience of stale bread and canned beans is only delightful for so long. Besides, I am afraid the pile of bills in front of me will tip over and kill me if I do not find a way to pay them soon. Never trust stacked unopened envelopes on your desk – there’s something sinister and fatalistic about them.