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I met an aspiring musician today, who wrote some songs for a pretty famous band. He complained about doing math in the library.

I am hardworking and responsible for the first fifteen minutes. I grind my way through the weird squiggly symbols that fill the page with the most boring words imaginable.
My mind fills with the locular voices of Rebecca Black as the pop music begins to play.
It whirls: these thudding beats throb with an unheard future of my songs, infecting boys and girls with the brilliance of my creativity, inevitably associated with the genius of my name.
Let me be the next
composer of the next
four-chord wonder,
the song that thrills the failing radio of our social lives, steeped in the refined garbage of a university environment, these prating fingers of boys and girls that curled their lips to a yet unforgotten song.

"I'm just too...creative";
he bounced on his heels as he pronounced this fair judgement:
as they say,
fame and money and
Jesse James coolness be damned,
I'm still cutting myself away from the steadiest rocks.


Sigh

Lighted doormen pass in dull stoned alleys, but the echo of festive morning wafts.
I don't understand what you are writing.
Do I understand what I am writing?
For once, I look at the scribe of meaning, meaning as act that is unnoticeable, unfanthomable, throwing its light upon the surface colour of words - not accounts, but deeds. Its life is not the finished product of the material past, but a combulation of acts, rising to the surface from the bottom of the heightless nothing.