“What inspires you?” he asked.
I had just gotten off-stage,
and was too high off of the four people applauding,
so I began my latest symposium:

“Lately, in trying to keep up with the Halls,
I’ve been attempting to write around six pieces a day.”
“Damn,” he said.
“Yeah. There’s no way they’ll be good at that clip.
Writing so much means I have to open the floodgates
for a lot of shit to come through.

“If I lower the quality so much that I know
crap is being created,
it gives me license to play
and I’m not worrying too much about what I’m doing
and anything can happen!

“I become desperate enough to write about anything.
Like a pen
or bacon and egg sandwiches -”

“- or recent conversations!”
“Exactly! Anything becomes possible when you lower your standards!”

He shook his head, as if he were excited by the ramble I’d just gone on. “Thanks,” he said, “What number were you, anyway?”