Future daze

I know that quality writing (quality reviewing especially) thrives on a contradictory meld of disinterested clarity and the catty, personalised wordplay of invective, where anger or outrage induce the fact — and on the other hand, balancing the sheer amount of review material at hand (I’m addicted to downloadahol) with the limited amount of motivated time to write and invoke non-clichéd shots at the target (the cliché being the shortest, straightest line to a critical truism, to be avoided absolutely but always lying in wait), and my often being at a loss to simply say something new about something new, all leave me in a state of mild indifference and wordlessness, no doubt typical of the jaded review mindset — washed up yet secretly hungry for that heartsinging work of inspiration — yet meeting everywhere its disappointment, the reactive ideas spent and thrustless like dull waves on a dun shore. That little voice calls out from within its rounded tower, in wiltingly pathetic tones: But what does all this music shit mean to me, I mean, personally?