I don't know what to write. I have nothing to write. I have nothing. I don't feel so good either. You know how Freddie Mercury said it's a kind of magic? Well, this is a kind of sickness.
Maybe I'll come up with something. It seems unlikely. The radio is on and a man is talking. I have a cigarette and a beer. I'm swivelling in my chair, bumping my toes. I can't see any insects in the room. There are no moths. There were moths everywhere yesterday. Where have they gone? Where have all the insects gone?
I can't hear anything. Why is it so quiet outside? What are the other people doing? I can't hear them. Only the computer is buzzing, the man on the radio talking. The people are locked in their rooms making no sound.
Pictures on the TV make me feel sick. The people. They are all smiling. What have they to smile about? What am I missing out on? Where has my smile gone? Maybe I will come up with something, then I will smile. Yet it seems unlikely.
Well, I guess I'll keep going. What else is there? Nothing. I can't read my book, have to write, even about nothing. Always a remote chance of coming up with something. Maybe it is on the horizon! I look up but the horizon is as flat as before.
Pretty funny to entertain thoughts that I can write, after all. Really got myself fooled, that's for sure. What a world of fantasy I have created for myself!