"Why don't I know what to write?" Staring at a blank page, this is what I ask myself. Outside my window, the insects are gathering, trying to escape the death that they know the night might bring. Everything's quiet, and if I listen, I can hear the heater humming and the refrigerator cooling the leftover Chinese food I'd ordered for dinner. I would turn on my music, listen to the swirling of the piano notes thrown together in some sort of beauty, but I know that at this point of the night, it would only distract me. I'd lose myself in the notes, in the feelings that the composer put into the song, and in the treble clefs floating around my head. So I sit still in the silence, hands poised on the keyboard, listening to the heater hum, and the refrigerator cool. And then I switch off the desk lamp, and sit that way in the dark, listening to my thoughts, to the voices in my head that are asking me the same, overwhelming question: "Why don't I know what to write?"
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