It's late and they are sleeping. I am tucked into the sofa; lost in revisions. Midnight wishes, I'm waiting for the pumpkin, or should it be the golden carriage. The words keep spilling, endlessly. I cut, shape, paste and add and add. Nothing ever stays the same. Bones ache, but I buzz endlessly, read Virginia Wolff and Issac Bashevis Singer, fall from one world to another. Words come and I scribble in a green and blue notebook. Handwritten letters to be turned into typed fonts. The manuscript will be ready soon. I'll come to an end and it is strange this last rush, different from the flesh and blood making of a play; so internal. Books just exist inside your head. Nobody can see the making. It's only manifestation is an utter mess of papers that flutter in piles, all over the house. Soon, I'll take a vacation, make bread and play. Breath real deep from the inside out. Then, it will begin again.