Some nights the words absolutely pour out, and you are drowning with things to say.
Some nights you write calmly, evenly, almost absent. You surprise yourself days later reading a thing you didn’t realize you had written.
And then some nights you write 277 words about a man watching television with Death and wonder how you ever manage to talk to people at all since words are so fickle and finicky and tiresome.
But the thing about writing, the trick of it, is realizing that each of these nights is the same. The writing is the writing. The dreaming is dreaming. The telling is telling.
Who are you tonight to know what’s good or bad, dishonest or true?