Split

I am stealing hours from myself these days—rising at three, desperate to get some writing in before the workday begins. The moon shifts overhead. The headlights of a lone car swoosh by. There's a single lit lamp above my neighbor's stoop, but darkness otherwise.

I woke with a scene in my head. I struggle to put the ghost of it down. I know that if I don't record this present mood, this conjured moment, this possible arc and bridge, these things will, this time tomorrow, be gone or tampered with, replaced by another mood, another apparent urgency.

I am reminded of the serendipity of this business. A bus rolls by, a loose cat cries, and something in the story shifts. There are no mandates.