I am laying on a red couch, drinking black tea, smoking a Gitanes cigarette, contemplating on the eternal quest for inspiration.
Jazz music is playing in the background.
I am still uninspired.
Twenty four hours, my eyes are tired and I am hearing voices.
Twenty four hours, my lungs ache and my paper is still blank.
Twenty four hours, my mind is bustling with ideas but I can 't seem to pin a single one down.
Twenty four hours, fifty three dead in Southern Beirut.
One hundred and sixty dead in Paris.
The analyst on the television is blaming the refugees, he won 't shut the fuck up.
The preacher next door wants me to pray for the victims, he won 't shut the fuck up.
My mother is scared for my life she doesn 't understand what 's happening,
she