an hour and ten minutes of peace, quiet and torture. he sleeps in the next room, the silence broken every now and then by his snuffled breathing. i sit at my desk, pencil in hand. and wait. for the words. for an idea. for anything. i read for inspiration. i look at old postcards. i stare out the window. i fold some clothes. and still nothing. i force my self to write. pendant. pedant. pedal. petal. patel. pater. i shade. i doodle. i wait. and then it comes. a muffled cry. i get up relieved. thankful.