In here.

I seek comfort in my writing, my silent witness, my hollow beast. The universe expands and contracts and I go back to her, my solitude that always expects me knowing I am always to come back. I sit quiet, my shoulders relax back, my head hangs lose. I have nothing to fear, I am not in the world anymore; it passes me by in a frenzy, but I've stepped inside. I have exercise the right that is Law's given, the one to chase oneself anywhere we might decide to go.

Every cell, every atom, every impulse keeps me standing, integrated in my flesh vessel. The physical part of my existence cannot avoid its own biology, and it stays, doing it's best impersonation of any common being, typing away. There's is also Me, the part that stepped inside.

In here is quiet, and light. Inside it's wonderfully smooth and clean. Inside is pure, and straightforward. Inside it doesn't matter. It really doesn't. It just is with all its magic and exuberance, the lushness of real life in real form. There are no codes to decipher, no set boundaries, no hush hush. There is no dress etiquette, no procedure, no deadline. There are no blind judgments, no brand recognition, no entitlement.

There's nothing, because from everything we know, nothing could possibly enter. You step into the beast to say:        .
Because in nothingness we can realize that all we know is the other side of the coin, and that there could never be a mid-point between Here and There.

We should write with that mind set, otherwise it would be like allowing a total stranger dictate our book to us. Don't listen, turn away.
Your book is terrible [ turn away]. Your book is great [turn away]. Let's get lunch [turn away].

It's not worth it to give in.