We wake, if ever at all, to mystery.
I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing.
A schedule defends from chaos and whim. A net for catching days.
It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance.
Theirs is the mystery of continuous creation and all that providence implies: the uncertainty of vision, the horror of the fixed, the dissolution of the present, the intricacy of beauty, the pressure of fecundity, the elusiveness of the free, and the flawed nature of perfection.
The secret is not to write about what you love best, but about what you, alone, love at all.