I find myself posing the darkest questions just before the waning hours turn to bird-sung sunrises.

And one of them is: Why do I have to feel this way to write? To yearn for the words to come out of my fingers and not my mouth? Why am I so set on sounding unbearably pretentious when I feel like I've lost everything and have nothing?

Most times, I guess, I'd rather be happy than write.