I get inspired by the most odd of things, and apparently only at night when i should be sleeping, I am writing the image, the feel of what I long for. By some miracle, some godly gift that it would come true just as I imagine. It is so tragic that it doesn't. Reality seeps in, and I realize that I am a fool. I will quote myself here: we write through frustration of what reality is not allowing possible. This restlessness brought on by my own foolishness, if any good shall come of it, is that it will inspire me to write. It may be the only remedy for a sleepless night.