There’s no inspiration in this window, in my bones, or in my blood. No inspiration at all. I need to let my hair down, and I need to let things happen. But things never happen, and that’s why the window is open.

I say there’s no inspiration in the window, and it’s true. The inspiration lies in front of the window, but not behind it, and certainly not within it. If I can see what lies in front, I might just be able to grasp a good idea. Or two or three. Ideally ten, but I’m not an optimist.

The wind comes rushing in, bringing with it the air of city and nightlife. It’s breathable and fun and loveable in its own way, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. That’s a damn shame, because a good metaphor right then would’ve been a shock out of your certain boredom. You, as a reader, have a right to leave me alone right now. I just beg of you to stay for a few more sentences.

And maybe it’ll come to me.

But I stay here, sat in the window. Almost always in the window. Rarely in front, and sometimes behind. It’s become dull. Boring. Bothersome, even, that I cannot think of a single thing to write. Of course this is a streamline of words, but don’t judge my credibility on that alone.

Please, don’t judge my credibility on any of this. I am aware of how hopeless I may sound.

How helpless I just may be.

Tonight I will suffer within this window.

But someday I will thrive in front of it.