Writing, never truly fastened up by props, always threatens to flicker out, like the one flame that keeps you breathing, guttered in the draft. Yet writing will not desist. There is no question of stopping. And frankly, if you do stop, nothing will mean anything ever again, and you'll watch all you love, everything you've ever wanted to save, all you need to invent, do a long, slow fade. So you stand there with one foot in the pit, in the black hole that sucks its own energy into an alternate dimension.
Light is inside it, far inside, blinding light.
The light starts as glimmer, like phosphorescence on a fly's wings, and bent color, like the bronzy reflections in an oily puddle, and gets brighter, bigger, hotter. You zip on the asbestos suit, deep inside the black slit, and walk through flames. It's about writing. The instant the protection of language falls away, there is the odor of singed hair. And begin a renewed approach.