I’m wondering if there is a formula for good writing, or maybe a recipe… Take one part panic, two parts shame, stir well. Bake at 600 degrees until sweating profusely.
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If I could stop constantly trying to inject meaning into this meaningless existence, I’d enjoy it a lot more.
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A lantern made of fireflies next to the bed is a lovely sight to fall asleep to, but in the morning all you have is a jar of dead bugs.
Mind of a Mouse 
I do most of my envisioning for my book in the minutes between turning off my light & falling asleep. Some of my best ideas for revisions come at this time.
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