I'm writing in a coffeeshop. There's a man in front of me, an overgrown hipster with a grey fauxhawk and a general air of british thuggery about him.
Next to me, there are a pair of older women discussing the elusive call of poetry --
"I suppose I could write poetry, but I don't have the inspiration."
"I'm not a writer in my deepest of heart, I'm not compelled to do it, but I want to express the feelings of pain and sorrow and regret, how universal, you know, to capture these things that everyone feels, but express it in a new way."
"I have some books you can read."
"That sounds like too much work."
They're overgrown goths. Awesome.