I walk to the desk to revisit a half-written piece, and it is written partially because I slept while writing it, reminding myself once again that working from the bed, no matter what kind of work it is, comes with a sense of indolence. I must avoid it today. And since I have forced myself to get out of bed on time—with no merit because the afternoon is here and I have accomplished sparingly little—I shall try to avoid this before it becomes a habit. All writing must happen when the light is still out. At least in cities and towns that are colder. And I shall remember this for my entire life. This is how it has to be if I have to get these words in and some pages filled. To get in bed with any intention other than that of sleep is playing right into the trap of fate. Before you know it, you open your eyes to the soft, beige light filtered through the curtains, and the words remain incomplete and even unwritten at times. But now, I shall complete it all for writing—the act of putting words down—and writing—the act of taking a thought and turning it into meaning—are two separate activities and can happen asynchronously. But the latter must happen first. The act of jotting it all down can wait. At least, this is how I have always looked at it. And perhaps this is my excuse for the days and nights I spend without writing, that it is the former, that it is merely pushing on buttons that remains, that the work is mostly done.