When the Oil is Spent

When the streams seem all clogged up and the water fountains are stopped, the beauty of the city seems suspended and happiness has taken a harsh holiday. When the oil is scratched, the light seems drawn away from the day and the brightness from the night. You look endlessly at the empty sheets before you totally reflective of the state of your brain at the instant. You look into the future and the lines seem drawn out of focus. Periods are replaced by commas and question marks and exclamation marks seem an endangered species.
When the oil is low the future is not dark. It is outright blank and any activity seems a surprise. When the oil is low gravity is suspended and movement modulated backwards. Slow motion becomes too fast and snails assume superhuman speed.
When the oil is low the problem isn't that there is no visible light at the end of the tunnel. It is that the tunnel doesn't seem to have an end and that even if it does you don't know what way it is in. When the oil is low there is no laughter in your secret place. Gone are the days of speaking to yourself in unintelligible speech and laughing at the foolishness of closing your eyes and assuming you'll sleep.
If the day comes when you find your laughter has been plucked out of your mouth before it had time to ripen and your smile is replaced by the incredible morose beauty of zombies, then perhaps you think you need some oil. Maybe you find you've lost your art. You wield the pen for hours and nothing seems forthcoming. The fountains seem locked from an inner room whose lock you never got to find its combination. The days of animalistic eureka and bursts of wild light seem so far away, so inaccessible.
When the laughter is stopped and creativity has taken an annoying nap, look up and start another round of laughter. A paroxysmal display of the greatest quality. When the oil is low you can finally dispense with oil and switch over to water powered engines. Sing about the lack of oil. When oil is lacking you can have all the water you want. Get up. Fountains are evergreen. When the oil seems spent, turn the knob higher and let it carry you all dressed up to the famous clearing for kindred spirits. Thank God for sunsets and spent oil. If not for them we would lose the lacerating colors of the moon and the daily twinkle of Pluto's smallest stars.