Words soar into my time like shooting stars. Daily heat. Black. Light. Night is here, I am tucked into my bed. As my feet mark time on the staircase turn, I know I have to write. There is the yearn. A longing. Just a few words, something before sleep, like the skinning of an onion, oil heating in a pan. A promise. A hope; a vision of a dish. A story. A text. A beginning. A burn. This is desire, from the French, de sidere, to "await what the stars will bring".
