In the early hours of morning, or the lateness of the previous night.
I must write.
My soul is sad. I must write.
There are so many things I have yet to say, or do, or even realize. I must write.
I am anxious. I must write.
For when pen comes to paper or fingers to keys, it is out.
Whatever it may be, out.
So why is it always the moment, as I close my eyes, that my mind opens?