I listen to the guitar as it slides up its length of frets.   The singer shoots; clarity washes over me as the goosebumps ride down my arms. I pick up my pen, my ink stained fingers tapping the rhythm forcing its way through me and onto the page. The static is gone; need bubbles out and finds air. I have found my niche after long spates of sporadic efforts otherwise.   I light my cigarette, my future death according to some. I inhale their toxic observations and exhale my satisfaction.   The character whispers and I tilt my head considering. I smudge the paper forming a space for the ghost to occupy. I open the inner eye and see them walk into the room and peer over my shoulder. Usually bemused at a first effort, they point out a wayward semicolon or three. I shrug as if to say: ‘What of it?’, and then the scene begins to play; a movie for me to watch as I write as fast as I can.