The vibration of the washer through the wall makes the bed ripple beneath me. My thoughts scatter like shredded paper and I struggle to pick them up and make something coherent of them. All the want of being alone, when I finally am, the desire to produce eludes me. A slight ringing in my ear reminds me these moments are few and far between, like the buzzing of a timer. But I’ve lost interest, in this paper, in writing, in speaking, or creating anything of worth. So I sit here in my silence waiting, pleading, hoping, inspiration will find its way to me again.