I woke up with sean connery’s voice inside my head. the first rule to writing is to write. sunday. another working sunday. in and out. I was going to go downtown last night but instead I had eleven hours of sleep. no regrets. coffee with mother this morning, just talking. I swallowed my ego and apologized to him. what for I don’t really know but it felt like it was the right thing to do. if we’re ever going to become something, that is. all this space now, between my fingers because they are missing his. I do not have a choice but to leave them move across the keyboard freely, without thinking. sometimes I should not be held responsible for my own words. has it happened to you, too? when writing feels like an out of body experience? I don’t know what I am doing, just filing up my time, making sure I don’t waste a single minute. the earth keeps moving around the orbit in sheer ignorance; seasons change, people come and go. and my question is, where is he going when I am not by his side?