There was a songwriter who thought she was a journalist and a mouse that thought he was a giant. The mouse met the songwriter during the turpentine wars, she was so traumatized by the plight of poisoned mice she wrote a song about it to tell the world. But the mouse didn’t like her appropriating credit, after all she wasn’t a mouse she just wanted people to see how sensitive and empathetic she was. So the mouse didn’t show up to the photo shoot and she was left holding the bag. The unimpressed editors fired her and asked for the return of their VR software and company car. She went to Thailand and spent a month cycling in the mountains, sharing a house with fruitarians and started writing a new album’s worth of material about only eating watermelon. It was all on acoustic guitar. There was no moral except the amount of writer’s block you believe in is directly proportional to how much improvising you are willing to do with what passes for ordinary.