The ideas are there or at least sort of.They’re all scattered around my brain like shredded clippings of a newspaper that I have to put in order.Stumbling my pencil over the dented paper,I let my mind chew on the ideas.If I write them all down then I’ll be able to order them about and make them do what I want (or so a poster once told me) but every time I think of a new one my brain doubles back on itself.Maybe I didn’t mean that actually,it whines,Maybe that part shouldn’t be there.Minutes run laps around each other and half an hour later I’m left with a shrivelled pile of rubber shavings and no words written on the paper.I huffily flick the button on the gramophone and even turning the pipes down to 0.5 doesn’t stop me from singing along.In less than ten minutes I’m stood on my chair and bellowing along to Toxic Thoughts like a beluga whale with no blueprints in front of me.As I sit down,I catch eyes with Debaclio in his frame.I often forget the picture’s there on my wall because it’s so high up but it’s a good one.He’s giving a handshake to someone off camera,the steely sky of his eyes gazes down through the glass which makes the dazzling ruby canvas behind him burn even brighter.Red on Nothing is one of my favourites.”Give me an idea.” I pray, “Please just give me something to work with.” But he only smiles crookedly back.So I leave my chair behind with no ideas good enough to offer.