It's back to this, awake and writing in the the night, it always comes back to this. I tried to sleep an hour ago, the sensible thing to do, with the day I have ahead of me tomorrow. But these thoughts, they toss and turn me out of bed, into the night restless. I step out my back door, breathe in the cool midnight air and a story is pouring into my mind. With no outlet I would certainly go mad, so instead of sleep I grab a pen or keyboard and let the words slip from mind to fingertip. I think of you and I wonder if you're alone too, sleeping soundly, chasing a dream, chasing a girl. What does it even matter to me, when after every love affair, chance meeting, tryst or tragedy ~ it's just back to me and a torrent of words I cannot stop, flowing forth from my mind in the middle of the night. I'm beginning to wonder if I even know what love is, when the only lover I've ever been faithful to is pen, paper and a cup of coffee. And I stand here in my kitchen doorway, nothing but a blue throw to protect me from the evening air, as I open the door, breathe in the night and wonder ~ do I bother to write or be sensible and try to get some sleep. Write it is... my love, my bliss, the only affair that ever worked out for me is this, it always always comes back to this.