It is early morning. Not yet light. My eyes are closed. I am half-conscious, waiting to write.

The thoughts, the words, begin to wash over me, in small, barely etched, waves. I begin to see a line, a thought, an image behind my closed eyes. I know it is important to remember this. Pencil and paper require moving. Moving might cause the line, the thought, the image to transform, or disappear.

I focus, bringing all my powers of memory and concentration to bear on that shimmery line, that evocative image, that bubble of thought. I am fearful of opening my eyes. It is like a pleasant dream that evaporates with consciousness.

If I open my eyes, I may retain this gift, or it may transform with sight, or it may go away. Dare I open my eyes? This line, thought, image could be a poem, a story, a novel. All it takes is a pinpoint of inspiration to call forth an entire work, fixed in time and space, surrounded by its own aura, built within its own unique structure.

I go over it again and again. Yes. I have it. It is fixed. It is mine. But I still don’t open my eyes. Somehow, something – or everything – will change at that moment. It is the anticipation, the smell, the taste, before the swallowing.

I hold it within me, like the first taste of a fine wine in my mouth.