I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet.

I have nothing with this answer, either. Or this question. Or this line. I have nothing, really in general. Full up on exhaustion and disorder, it’s nearly impossible to access the creative response in myself. I search and search within but I have nothing with this answer.

I have a lot of anxieties and worries and concerns and a sore back from moving and practical concerns like where to put my guitar. But I don’t have anything of merit for this. And I guess that’s what the king’s saying, too.

“I got nothing for this, Hamlet. You’re not giving me anything to work with.”

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