Strange dreams follow you into the Midwest morning, a quiet motel parking lot watching over your deepest sleeps. Over scrambled eggs and midgrade coffee in the lobby, you try to make sense of where you are, but you are too content to worry. A penny appears on the muted carpet as you make your way back upstairs. Because of course it does. You consider DSM diagnoses and wonder if this is what mania is, a conviction that the Universe has turned its smiling face upon you, that now is your time again.
The schedule says mornings are for work, but all you want to do is write, now. All you want is the road, and music, and billowing clouds across the Kansas plains, all you want is the zen of an open horizon, you fought so hard to get here, you do not want to lose a minute of it to the real world.
Remind yourself that this is the real world.
Just because it feels too good to be true
doesn't mean you can't still make it yours.
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