Inspiration is a funny thing. When I look for it, it's nowhere to be found.

Inspiration? Let's see, inspiration. Nope, don't think I've seen anything like that 'round these parts for quite a spell.

When I'm not looking for it, it sets up camp inside my skull, just behind my slowly expanding forehead, and begins pounding on drums while its companions, creativity and imagination, dance furiously to the jungle beat.

Right now, for example, inspiration is nothing but a faint memory.

I want to write something about something.

I want to write about natives living on a volcanic island.

When that volcano starts to rumble, and they know that they're going to die, do you suppose that some of them just wish it'd hurry up and erupt already?

Not because they're anxious to die, but because they just want to get it the fuck over with. So they can stop trembling with every belch of smoke or vibration of the earth. So they can stop wondering Is this it? Is this the end?

Living in fear is no way to live.

I've known for several weeks now that something horrible is going to happen to me.

Somewhere in the depths of space, a chunk of rock has been diverted from its orbit. It's begun a long slow spiral inward that will eventually cause it to land right on top of me.

There's no escape for me. I know that even if I should somehow survive the impact, I won't be the same. I'll have to rebuild myself. Again.

I don't know when this is going to happen. I'm certainly not looking forward to it. But a part of me, realizing the inevitability of it all, a part of me really wants to just get it the fuck over with.