Tonight I took a cab to nowhere I haven't been before. Most of my cab rides are like that now. Unemployed and curious, I wondered how one becomes a cab driver. Had I been on a boat I am sure I would have been wondering about how to become a sailor. And while I was researching how to become a cabby, he asked, "Well, what do you want to do?" This is a question many have paid their therapist to ask. "C'mon kid. How old are you? You must still have some kinda dream you're after?" I confessed, "I'm a writer." I left out the part about how I'm struggling in the midst of a blue period. "You write everyday?" I lied, "Yes!" "How many pages?" Paragraphs, these days, I've only written paragraphs. "You have to write at least three pages a day." He told me about Budapest, San Francisco's identity crisis, and the need to fill my creative well. Riding in that cab, on my way to nowhere I haven't been before, I thought of writing a paragraph.

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