I have to sit in quiet, sometimes quieter than quiet, sometimes silence for the thoughts to come, for the

first line to connect to the second, and this silence is hard to find. I have to wait minutes, sometimes hours. Ive waited days for the right word or image to show up and meet me on the page. The longer I wait, the more frantic I count just how many moments are left before deadlines. My eyes pace back and forth over an Arctic-white screen, and I imagine my mind is as white and pregnant with Empty. I am the insomniac with bloodshot eyes and weary-electric energy who calculates just how many Zs are left before the alarm rings. I have no trouble sleeping though, only collecting lines for pages. It takes time and hushedness for any ripe words to blossom. The minutes, hours, and days are expensive especially if they must be silent minutes. Who can afford to find this time and shush it? Who wants to? Wants to log off of every other distraction to wait for the word that might not even come? Believe me, that bastard word may stand you up every night and will not care or feel guilty about the show you did not watch, the posts you did not read, the friend you did not call. There is no remorse about your embarrassment. The word doesnt give a damn how silly you looked being patient and quiet. Its not his problem that something is due, that something is expected, something sensical and entertaining. Your stack of bylines means nothing to the word, besides proof you have played by his rules before. But I have to sit like this for hours waiting anyway. Sometimes, one or two ransomed thoughts are released when I meet inspirations demands. I exhale and think, Glad, thats over. It isnt though. It could be dark, midnight miles between one paragraph to the next. I still sit and wait until I set an inky period on the end of the last word.