Clean sheet of paper in the typewriter. White, crisp, unused, unruined. The story that can go anywhere, the potential just lying in the wings, ready to burst forth, the tickle in the fingers and pink sparkles in the dreams. Coffee still fresh, time infinite, and anything is possible.
I find so often that I love that moment the most, on the verge of action. I adore to write the lists, to structure the events, more, perhaps, than the events themselves. Cleaning the entire apartment, down to the last unseen corner, and washing the windows to clear all obstacles to flow.
Commissioned to translate a larger piece of literature, I let my eyes run across the typeset pages of the original. I dream of how I can spend the money when it comes in the Spring. I toy around with the words and sentences, picking them out like cherries and letting them roll around my tongue to see what can be done with them. I know full well that mere weeks from now, I will be tearing my hair out and wishing I had never signed on to such a project. I know there will already be a new gem, sparkling in the corner of my eye, to which I would much rather run.
Reality gets old, so quickly.
Why am I short of attention
When all my nights are so long?
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