Dee Ef

Inspiration wasn't the same today as before. The muse who before swept me along and up and dreaming now sits down on a bench and stairs me in the eye. The muse is a man with a haggard face stained and dusted by the metropolis' grimy reach. The muse is something else much more sporadic and random. Today my friend swore he saw Gael García Bernal at a table in the back of the Argentinian restaurant but it wasn't him, it was a guy with the same haircut sitting alone looking slightly sad with a similar face but rounder, more bulbous, and with something of a round ball attached to the tip of his nose. Maybe inspiration would be watching a marital fight over traffic that just doesn't move, the nervous silences followed by rapid fire excuses and pleas for understanding. Perhaps trying to make yourself understood in a language you barely understand is the most inspiring. Perhaps walking and connecting with asphalt, sweat, mandarin oranges and cabbage would be. Rivers of grime outpour into a gold-lined gulley.

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