It’s me and the dark quiet morning. The cicadas have finally left. The calm in their wake is eerie. For weeks, I couldn’t sleep with the window open, as they were a raucous symphony. And then, it was too hot. Now, no birds sing, no bugs call for mates. It would be very, very easy to return to bed, pull the sheet up and block the light from the digital alarm clock with a book. So simple to drift off into a dream that I don’t have to figure out, that I am not responsible to complete. That I don’t even have to like.

But instead. I am here. In a chair, In front of a laptop. At a desk with a mug of coffee, a bottle of water and a ream of paper waiting to be filled.