I have nothing to say

Occasionally you sit down n front of this thing and say to yourself -I have nothing to say I have never had anything to say.  

You look at the keys and they all look black as if it doesn't matter which key you press.  They are all the same.  They are all meaningless slabs of black rock with ancient Egyptian symbols on them.  There is no possibility of meaning because you don't understand them.

And certainly the same should be said about the paintings.  They have no sense, no form of expression and convey nothing.

I feel like I'm fifteen again, a time when no thought had the energy to enter my head, no feeling had a feeling to express, nothing was glued together, everything fell apart with its lack of sustenance, its total void.  The only possible answer was reading and playing music.

And rowing.  Taking that metal boat down to the lake and rowing.  That at least felt good.  Where is everybody I used to ask myself out on the lake alone in a bizarre quiet on a warm Virginia spring day.

And how did Aldous Huxley know the name of those plastic wraps on the end of his shoelaces?  How could he make up phrases like the near familiar object beyond the diaphanous prism?  What did that mean?  And where is anyone?  Are they all at home doing homework?