Right now there are songs coursing through me. I hear sounds, choruses, verses, chants, rhythms, screeching guitar licks and dreamy synth lines, all pulsing and pounding and cajoling me to write on, to let the story tell itself, to make my fingers let out the secrets of the people and creatures living in my brain. I hear frontmen wailing about loves lost and lusts never fulfilled. I smell the backstage area, all polluted with corruption, cigarettes and spilled beer.

But honestly, I need sleep.

I also think I need to do some laundry. Lame.