I take a blank page I start to write. I spout cliches and song lyrics and swirls and nothing useful. I screw the paper up BIN. I draw the curtains block out the sun and the noise and the world. Too dark to see. I open the curtains. I get a blanket I curl up. I swear under my breath why can't I do this why is this wrong why so hard. I am jealous of the genius others in pretty white rooms with carefully white things and airy white light and love. And love. And love. Music grates me nothing is beautiful. I cannot create and I cry.