Half past the witching hour and before the break of angels, I’m awake in the shadows of 3am. My mind dances in between words and ideas. The darkness grows. The air chills. I write on spirits with invisible ink.
And, every time I close my eyes, those words make sentences, and those sentences fall into lines, those lines grow into meaning.
Dawn tugs at my lashes. I pull the blanket close, the notebook closer, scribble in nonsensical rhythms promising reason and form in the writhing lines squirming to get out of my mind.
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