There is a very peculiar reason why some of us choose certain words over others, ‘it matters’- and so you run past the world, searching, until you find it, or not. You sit down on the couch and inevitably sleep, it’s a weird sensation, almost like a needle sticking to your sensitive skin, ‘it moves’ and hurts. You still haven’t found the right word. When you wake up, you only have 18 minutes to find the right word, before Kit barges through the door, your editor, looking for just that right letter, essay, article, poem, story or you. But this is the story of just one of these days, when you lie down on your own couch searching for words, before finding a new place to find words in, maybe tomorrow, or the day after. Writing is hard these days, let alone the rest of your life.