When I penetrate the “flow” of writing, everything else makes sense.
My thoughts, sporadic as they are, line up. A trajectory. A set path. Something that works, for once in my life.
When I write, I have control
I am on the steering wheel, miles away from the noise of world, far removed from my sense of passing time, and driving on.
It’s not about speed, it’s merely about execution—raw and sustained execution.