I'm going through a quiet patch the voices have lost their urgency turning to annoying whispers sometimes they give me a line and I ignore it, try to remember then regret not writing it down it's almost nice, the quiet I still have the urge, but not the spark to carry it out like an old dog that lies on the step in the sun dreaming that once he could've herded sheep but it's beyond him now so dreaming is all he has left but the sun is warm on his back and there's always tomorrow