It builds like a coral reef in my head. Fear, alienation, love, kindness, brute chance, sweet coincidence. Everything is a question now. How many more books will I write? Three? Thirty? How many more years? What do I do differently? What if it's all a false alarm?
Still sleeping through the night, so it can't be that bad yet down in my plumbing. But I can see the castles a-building at the borders of my inner night.