at a loss for words

I've taken to counting the letters, listing off the words on the page, and saying them out loud, as if their sound will set off a spark. I make notes of clever things said, and written, by those more inspired than myself. I count the minutes spent sitting in a quiet stupor, staring blankly at the taupe-coloured walls of the coffee shop. Waiting, willing for inspiration, and waiting some more.

What do you do when you've run out of things to say? You're scared. It's death or embarrassment, and all that dribbles out are rambling passages about the weather and other desperate things. You've lost your rhythm, and you're scribbling about nothing and wondering about everything.

I'm looking for direction. And counting.