would write for about an hour, then eat something. not eat is a vice, a type of drug - an empty stomach feels fast and clean, bright mind, ready for a battle. Sip coffee, puts it down, stretches out his arms. This is one of the most unique experiences: waking up in what looks like a good day, preparing for work, but not really yet begun. This moment holds infinite possibilities for hours to come. The mind buzzes. This can penetrate the morning mist, clogged pipes, to reach the gold. Can you feel it inside, a second self indescribable, or rather itself a parallel, purer. If it were religious would call "soul." It 'more than the sum of his intellect and his emotions, more than the sum of his experiences, although all three runs through the veins as lustrous. It 'an inner faculty that recognizes the animating mysteries of the world, because it is made of the same substance, and when it is very fortunate she is able to write by drawing directly from the faculty. Write in that state is the deepest satisfaction that I know. But its ability to access it comes and goes without notice. May challenge the pen and follow it with his hand as it moves to the paper, may challenge the pen and find that it's just her, a woman in a bathrobe holding a pen, afraid and uncertain, with an expertise only superficial and no idea where to begin or what to write.
Grab your pen.
Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy her flowers.
- The hours from M. Cunningham -
