Numbly, I reach towards the white painted keys, fingers loose and fumbling. Before they press down I feel the cool smoothness and run my hands along the white sidewalk, looking for a scrap of inspiration. I return to C, middle C, a map a familiar triad but feel like a lonely goatherd, high on a hill with the same old notes heard. Fingers trade white for black and kiss neighbours creating a blasphemous spice to a label's religion of Top 40 glory. I dance with the spice that feels twisted, pulling the puppet across the stage to witness their love torn away, left to sing their ballad alone int he dar. A shift away and their love returns…

There are always two problems, there's either not enough inspiration to write or too much inspiration to allow you to focus properly. I feel like this is the latter problem. I could write a million things on music.