With a pen held tight in the palm of my hand, I let ink spill like spit, in hopes of some sort of genius accidentally spilling out. But there are no words left in me. With a pick held loosely I strum strings (which produce notes I've already heard), in hopes of stumbling across the chords that brush past hearts to produce thoughts. But there are no chords left in me. So lets manufacture inspiration! It doesn't matter whether this is a routine. As long as you know that if all I have is you then I have all I need.