Ya listen to bob dylan every single song. Everyday for years. Then one day a spark of inspirations rips through you're entire being, then comes the fervent indescribable and momentous need for the pen. You strike it too paper and in its fellowship you and it are one. Taking perfectly the images of the mind and without the slightest bit of onerous struggle you articulate in until the great work is finished. You read through your maddening dribble curious of what it is you had just completed. Its utter garbage: every note, every word. It reads like the rantings of a man strung out on meth. You toss it where it belongs: the garbage. Then as you you lay you're had to rest in confused daze, questioning you're very existance and how it is in such providence you could be lead to infertile ground.

Then, with perfect incandescent realization, you spring from bed. You didnt read your book, no you read the instruction manual for that new fan you bought, and mixed them up after returning from your long awaited bathroom break, and in you're sleepless haze you couldnt tell the difference. You strip the blankets from you and near run to the your study further vexing you're wife, whom already annoyed by the many sexless nights and numerous respites from work, curses you under her breath, but without slightest care you search for the pages of you're spontaneous genius. It's perfect. Returning to bed with now reclaimed confidence, you fuck the shit out of your wife. She deeply thanks you for the much needed penetration and you afford yourself the greatest sleep. Only to awake to you're wife happily cleaning the house. You bolt quickly to the study. Its clean organized, but, the trash, its empty. It's never empty. You frantically spurn around the room looking for your masterpiece. You look here and there wondering to and fro in the room until you accept gone. You fall to your knees unable to summon the strength to cry your head hangs below your shoulders as if limp from a hanging -- you are dead. In the slightest second of your last bit of strength you waddle, on your knees, to that locked drawer -- the third one down on the left. Unlocking it, you find you're loaded pistol without hesitation you stick the thing in your mouth and end your horrid drouth of happiness.