In the murky depths of the evening, there's a flood of thought and word and idea that surprises me with the joyous hope that there are still original things to be expressed. I suppose that's the drive for becoming a writer - knowing the power and extent of language to say something new has not been exhausted. But I know I'm exhausted sometimes.
I stayed late at the library a couple nights ago, and then decided to walk around the city late at night (okay, early in the morning - it was around 3:30/4:00am). I watched delivery trucks speeding through the quiet city streets, still halting at traffic signals to abide by the law, even without a single pedestrian approaching. I observed cars come to a stop, each to release a bounding human with a stack of papers tucked underneath his arm that bore the claim of "MONDAY." It's strange to read Monday's headlines when you feel Sunday hasn't been put to rest yet.
9 hours ago