I have to slap my radio to make it work

And I find that comforting. It occasionally begins to kill its sound. A sort of slow draw down into fuzzy almost silence and then absence of sound. It takes a moment to believe that there is nothing and then a little longer to believe that the pause was not deliberate and longer still that it is not a technical problem at the station. An odd sequence, because the radio reliably loses its voice every 20 minutes or so. A solid slap and the sound surges back.

And that is the best that I can do. All I can bring myself to write- in months, maybe a year. I walk around observing, constantly reflecting on the interesting, the extradordinary everywhere. And I can no longer bring myself to write them down. What genius, arrogance, optimism, ignorance, or disdain a prolific writer must have. Absent these motivators (or the need for income), only some bizarre psychological defect could explain the editorialist.