In the middle of the night, I can’t control my intellect. Healthier, I’ve found, just to follow along where my dreams and subconscious ideas have gone on their own throughout the sleeping night, like a child with my hand held by my parent, I don’t tantrum or run in another direction.

Often what is there is already there so that when I wake up in the middle of the night and start to write something exactly like this, all I’ve to do is start with the first words in my mind and the rest come tumbling out after due to no extra effort of my own. It’s all from what’s been done in my subconscious between 10pm and 4:30am.

Whereas the weirdest part, irksome even for a writer that tries to get down what’s good, is just how much I don’t recall upon waking, how many dreams I don’t remember but lived like my real waking life nonetheless. These forgotten dreams affect me surely but I do not know them firsthand. All I can do is write what there is and go back to sleep and wait for my parent to wake me again with her wisdom.