There is a well – a reservoir that stores the great and lofty ideas of a writer. Its depth requires an air tank and its miles from shore to shore – a sturdy vessel. And while this repository of “what ifs,” insight, and observation is easily navigated while driving, waking, or standing in the shower … it does not lend itself to a map nor does it beacon in lucid moments at the keyboard. This wealthy ocean, this Shangri-La cool drink of creativity, exists in just that moment, that exact spot in the time-space continuum, where fear flees and boldness declares white squalls of edgy inspiration – drowning the willing victim in new worlds and unexplored feelings. A fickle sea when set as a destination. A happy grave when found in distracted efforts into Otherland. To die a little in that resting violent sea of throbbing neurons … every writer longs for that little bit of death each time they sit lively to perform their art.