The air is not moving in here.  No sign of movement out there either.  The trees are motionless, not a leaf twitches.  The back of my t-shirt is damp.   Playing guitar as tasteless to me as it is to talented friends who, reckoning themselves failures because they never became stars, play only when drunk.  

The idea of getting drunk  — dry as the idea of playing.  The idea of writing– same thing.

What I’d like to do, but, of course, one can’t, is spin a cocoon and hang out in there, sleeping deeply, until it’s time to float and fly.