By Isaac Handelman

I am not a musician, but I would like to find my music. I would like to write my music. I want it to flow from me. I want to care, and I don’t want it to stop. I want to find my muse, or my amusement. I want to write my music. I don’t care much if others listen. I just want to find my music, and to write it. Is there a trick, or do I just need to stick with something? Will I start to care, will I get invested, if I stay invested? I don’t want to force it, but I don’t want to ignore it. I don’t know how to evoke it, or if it’s even there. If it’s not, I’d like to put it there. If I can’t find my music, I’d like to make it. To create it. I don’t know how, but I’ll try to figure it out. I sure don't want it to pass me by.

Sometimes opening a window helps. Otherwise, it can be suffocating. Serenade, sweetly. I think these things as I walk down the street, toward the place where the Goblin lives. That disgusting little man, that vile, unworthy scum… he revolts me. I have arranged to meet him. I regret this decision. Fee, fie, fo, fum. He sits under his bridge. Fuck him. That troll, that gross, gangly, ghastly, ghoul. I’d spit on him if I could. That would make the meeting an awkward pain, though. Imagine that, my spit, coating his face. A barrier between me and him. Perhaps that’d make it more bearable, I think to myself. I laugh to myself. I crinkle my nose and close my eyes, but the light still penetrates them. The street is wet. My shoes are wet. Soon, my socks will be wet. Then, my feet will get wet. And then I will be a soggy fuck, trodding flatly through these dull streets, uncomfortable, barely mobile, slowed by the stringy, soaking fabric between my sickly skin and the wet ground. I’ll ge...