My iPod is playing alphabetically by song; moving from Simon and Garfunkel's "America" to Damien Rice's "Amie", it confirms that feeling I suspected I was having. Late night, Zack asleep, only the light from the monitor in the room, the sound of casually beautiful music playing, and me, wanting to write. This is a feeling I once had often.

I can't tell you the source of my silence, whether it's complacancy or shame, a new sense of purpose or udder confusion. I suspect I've past that adolescent need to leave myself open and vulnerable, that need to be loved wholly, and to the core, or not at all. I've grown pragmatic, I suppose, and it's not a particularly inspiring place to be.

The alphabet isn't as generous at the end of "Amie", and I skip past "Amish Paradise" by Weird Al and Aerosmith's "Angel", finally deciding to switch it to shuffle-- it was made for moments like these afterall. "Kill Ya Momz" by Sage Francis. Nope. I let it play Brandi Carlisle's "Wasted" as I struggle to formulate that last sentence, and now it's onto Paranoid Social Club's "In My Headphones". It's clear some iGod is toying with me. He knows this isn't coming easy to me, not anymore, and he's not gonna make it any easier. Let's see what happens when I press next.

"Crazy old Maurice, hmmm?
Crazy old Maurice, hmmmm?
Lefou, I'm afraid I've been thinking."

"A dangerous pastime."

"I know."

You can say that again, Lefou.

And now Christina Aguileira's Dirty. And now The Clash, Guns Of Brixton. Maybe I'll let this one play. My mood has changed. After all, it's a song about putting up a fight.

Of course, it's a fight your almost guaranteed to lose. But aren't they all?

On with it.