why is it that I can only write in the depths of the night? to be woken from sleep and forced to scribe— the work insists, apparently on its own schedule even in it's intrusion, I cannot deny the intimacy these hours offer: the stillness of late night, the illicit feeling of being on borrowed time, writing while the rest of the world sleeps there is a quiet calm that creates space for the otherwise unspoken here the channels are clear I want to write, of course, but I want to sleep, too I guess it’s true what they say art will always take something from you
As a fellow middle of the night scribbler; you captured the feeling exactly
This is so accurate, and worse that all the best ideas manifest in these late hours