I shouldn't, never, be afraid to write. Writing is my entrance ticket to that secret place in heaven, a place of accomplishment, a place where I may settle my heart, live within my heart, peaceful and satisfied.

Topics each day wander through the canyons of my mind at odd times, during the early mornings and late evenings. Afternoons aren't prime for writing. Maybe it's the longevity of it.

Someone once said, "Three o'clock is either too early to start something new or too late." I've half-adopted that as my motto. Though I believe it, I don't always live it.

Each day has its pulse. Each sit-down with my notebook, pen, and timer (21 minutes, if you ask) is Renaissance Time. Writing to fly away. Writing to unshoulder the loads. Writing to light the torches. Writing to calm this bird. Or to possibly agitate the confusion of thoughts into coherence.

A blank page is not my stare. I need no dare to fill one. But I cannot overthink it. My dream is to write the invisible. Chew the unnamed. And flavor drab toast with raspberry jam.

My favor to ask of you, for you who read my pages, is to be generous enough with your sponge to wipe the entire countertop off of the ideas that touched your mind. Then, rinse the sponge thoroughly well with the water of your consciousness to have, possibly, a clean mind to begin or end your day.

Likewise, because I believe reading in the slumbering afternoons is climbing an unnecessary hill, I suggest to read in the morning or the evening, for then is when the secret passageway my writing opens up is usually encountered.

7:55 AM October 26, 2026, Monday.