I'm sitting here in this coffee shop. You know the one there by Allen street. The town is filled with thousands of middle class college kids living off their parent's money. The coffee shop is where the ones come to play the part of sophisticated bohemians  . The pretensions   glow from their line-less faces as they sip cappuccinos and chew strawberry cookies. The boys to my right are discussing Nabokov with a serious air, a copy of Sartre's Cuba lies on the table. The young woman on my left is declaring that she can never allow her creativity to be killed by entering the work force. The man with her scratches his goatee   in agreement, occasionally suggesting they go back to his place to hear his new Washington Squares CD. Matt has just designed a new international symbol for peace. He moves from table to table trying to sell hand painted T-shirts that bear the design. Tomorrow he's leaving for the 25th anniversary Woodstock concert where he hopes to strike it rich with his creation. Gopha the skinny Indian boy feels like singing me a verse of 'It Ain't Me Babe' when I ask him if he's a friend of Monica's. Jason is trying to talk Gopha into a dollar bet on a game of chess. Between times Jason will chew your ear off with his plans to conquer the music industry while studying entertainment law, but when it comes to his never ending dollar chess matches he's quiet as a church mouse. I sit among them. To all surface appearances one and the same. If they could only see I would rather reach into their flesh and tear out their shallow little hearts than listen to another second of their prattle  . With no job, no gigs, and my girlfriend's so far gone she might as well be on another planet, I've been leading the writer's quiet cafe life, spending my free time outdoors drinking iced teas and cheap wines. I chat warmly with whoever decides to squander away their hours in my surrounding area. But behind my eyes is an unspoken challenge to any and every one of these social elites   to just once say one thing that would inspire me. Just one little idea which is new and meaningful. Unfortunately original thoughts are zero here. In my secret mind I wish to run like a madman banging gongs and speaking in tongues. Or maybe jump on a table and sing the Star Spangled Banner in the forgotten language of the Hottentots. I know these thoughts only reveal me as a fool because the spark I search for cannot be found in acts of shocking performance art. Where it truly comes from is one of the mysteries which will always hang around me. What does the passage imply?
The hero is sure that he can find the original thoughts in a crazy way. The hero is disappointed at the college students failing his expectation. The hero is quite content with his quiet cafe life as a writer. The hero is lost in the physical world and hopeless about his future.