You could turn on the news to see the results of yesterday's election. But that precious moment in the morning,

where the body is still resting,
where the dawning day still seems vague,
where spontaneous ideas flow from a creative pool from which you can receive - not order from,
where you look and yet not quite see,
where you know that this too shall end,

must not be wasted.

Every word comes pure.

The words are like little insects landing on this white sheet of paper.
The words seem unfamiliar to you, because they are not yours.
The words transform one state into another.

You hear birds and a car door slamming. Something gets you going and you know the words are about to stop.

Now.