born in waves

I was looking at a picture of Bukowski’s tombstone and I thought to myself, “I gotta fly over to California someday and just put my hands on that stone for a while.” Then I realised I didn’t need to do such a thing. What would an old, dead man do to me through the grave? Inspiration is this mysterious muse that everyone is chasing around without realising it’s at the tip of our fingers.

I don’t need to touch Bukowski’s tombstone. Right now it is enough to just think about it, and I am doing it. I’m not even trying. Guess that was the whole point, wasn’t it? “Don’t try.” I am not, sir. Not trying. It just came to me. You were a genius even without a bottle of wine. Maybe someday I’ll stop at your grave and leave a full glass. Not for the inspiration, the romanticising I’d be able to get from that experience, no. I’ll just share a drink with you. My master. You teach me something new every single time I read your words.