Goodbye Sunshine.

I wrote to you all last night, but the words (and they are good ones)
are trapped in a notebook conveniently tucked close to my bed. I had
forgotten what it felt like to write on paper. Things seem to come out
prettier. I guess it's just more romantic than the harshly lit
computer screen and the unnatural click-clack of keyboard strokes.
There is something fairytale-like about waking up at some lost hour of
the night, groping for the bedside lamp, and decorating pages upon
pages with thoughts that could only be thought after midnight in a
carefully handwritten script. And now I hesitate to breach the cover
of that notebook and transcribe those sentences here, will they lose
their magic? Of course not, but I am feeling lazy.

Anything I write now seems lackluster and more than forced. It's
easier to steal thoughts from the subconscious when it's let the
barrier down, when you can just keep telling it no, this is just a
dream. If I ever became a writer of any kind, my work would be done in
the hours of darkness when consequences seem far away and guile is
easier to come by.