It starts with the mildest of anticipation, a sense of prelude, the uncharted liberation of an empty Word document.
I pause, even though the sketch has been formed, for the lines to get darker, firmer, definitive. Shards cohere into rapidly swirling aerial whirlpools, spilling out into letters, words, and then lines sliding off the page. I can take no credit—I will not—only convey what needs must be told, for holding words within, like ingesting too many groundnuts, routinely fosters belly aches.
And finally, when it leaves you, there is a sense of relief. A package sealed, a job done, the closing of another sub-chapter in that coffee table tome we only occasionally browse. Applause is extraneous, the act itself organic, a past I am all too comfortable leaving behind.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi