It's 11:46, but I don't get that strange hopeful feeling I used to get at 11:46, or maybe it's later that that feeling starts. 2 or 3 am. It's the feeling of being up when no one else is and secretly doing important things.
You probably do something you wouldn't think of, you become incredibly intent.
I remember waking up before dawn, walking into a dim room and realizing I am the only one awake. I could do anything, and, discongruently, that feeling of all possibility ground down to a clear point of certain action. I take this newspaper, unfold it, refold it and put it back on the fireplace. There, relief. Because anything has been achieved. I follow my feet down the carpeted hall back to bed.
And once, late, late! The hours have passed and passed. I am inventing in a gallery with Bethany. I have observed our work as the hours passed and now at 3 in the morning I get the feeling of "secret time." Although I am not alone, it is late enough that I am alone regardless. The certainty of action I feel (that anything turned into something clear and necessary) distills a story that I write down. This story is intentional work that becomes apparent all on it's own. Because of it's natural ascension no listing or forcing parts is required. It is not hard work, it's of my soul. It requires me and I require it.
Like a red letter on a silver tray.
