The clock on the wall pounds a steady beat. Tick tock, tick tock. The clock strikes 12. All is silent, all is still. Sane people are abed at this hour, but not the lonely figure at the desk, or in the bed. They sit and wait for the depths of sleep to come. But it does not. They sit with a blank mind, empty paper, sharp pencil. As the darkness seeps in around them, their mind launches into a flurry of sound, sights, and smells. The pencil does not remain sharp. The paper does not remain empty. But they don’t see their thoughts become words, no, their hands move of their own accord as they watch the story unfold. It is the time when we write.