It is the tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
The warband of ideas that roams my head, pillaging the land and laying siege to the fortresses of my mind, chooses to remain silent. Their war cries, usually so overbearing in their efforts to shout out the thunder, instead have become muted conversation that rolls across the landscape on a gentle wind.
A howl, like every wolf in existence choosing to join the chorus, emanates from some unseen monster behind a distant hill. It is accompanied by a distant rumble, that ancient monster clambering to its feet.
The warband has dissipated. They seek refuge from this monster’s unholy shriek, its imposing presence. It crows from its hideout behind the horizon. The rumble comes again a the giant maw opens, shaking the very foundations of this landscape. The ideas and their usual raucous carousing have fallen silent, leaving nothing but me and the monster.
“Hello, writer’s block.”
The Idiot in Tin Foil