Writing, First Thing

I like to start writing as early as I can, when I’m closer to the night. When I do I feel the brakes are off and anything can happen. If I don’t I find everyday realities, plausibilities and distractions claw in and leave me struggling to write anything I’d like to read. At the end of the day, when I ride the train home from London there’s a similar situation. Then, I’m letting go; letting the day that’s been slip through my fingers and, like dreams I suppose, some of the day resurfaces in what I write but often barely recognisably so.
        Just as I’ve woken most things feel strange, even the floor under my feet. I listen to something, uncertain what it is or where it’s come from: some birds, maybe, in a tree. A fox or the first train of the morning.

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