Too many ideas and desires for stories, and time simply isn’t there. I can stay up later and later and still not find those extra hours. No matter what happens my hope refuses to stop believing in time–as in lost time, making up time, and the witching hour. Somewhere these magic minutes are hiding, and when I find them, I shall shake them, and they shall shower down over me and my keyboard and ta-da! the stories in my head will escape to the page.
Until then I suppose I will have to type faster. While sleeping.