If I close my eyes I can feel warm hands on me, the bliss of feathered air, as morning knows exactly how to touch me. Dazed in silent thought. A mysterious smile hovers close to my lips working methodically through my next book, morning now opening from night's dark coldness. Rapid intake, then output of thoughts put to paper. In a whisper so low I can hardly hear it, my keyboard calls to me, sings to me, as an ominous black thread pulls me to it. In precise sequence of sentence my naked words slither out, as my keyboard waits for me to speak and grabs for my words from my bottomless sea, as even more float and bob to the surface. A day spent editing, which is, in fact, the least pleasant part of the writing experience.
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