The thing about it, of course, is that you need all the time in the world. You need to pore over old prose, collect hidden meanings from unended sentences, string together dreams like a mad detective, always a little too close to the case, never in a rush to see what else is out there, never tired or world-weary or in need of a good nap.
The stories will not come out under pressure, will not appreciate the ticking of a kitchen egg timer underneath your shirt will not
come when call and only
barely when coaxed you
stare at blank pages and hobbled post-its and think
There is an entire
world there
waiting
but it will
make sure you
earned its
trust
before opening the door.
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