Totally Random Observations Made Just Before Bed

It happens without fail every night. I put away the notebook. I take the glasses off. I turn off the bedside lamp. Nestled within double layers of insulation, I begin to follow the beckoning light that leads away from conscious thought and toward the infinitely richer landscape of the subconscious. And then, accompanied by the sudden jerk of a train leaving the station, the first swirl of ideas coalesces and precipitates into a vignette, or sometimes a full-blown story.

I've determined that they come to you like fish: sometimes you throw them back to catch a bigger one later, or just because you can. On the other hand, you must keep casting the line to stay in practiced form, for without this you might one day float forever over schools of fish and never catch a bite.