The writer wakes and he keeps writing. 

With a lunatic’s BPM.  The music in his head keeps with its odd and angular consistency but he sees stopping as a sort of death.  So he proceeds, promising himself no end.  Another sip of that red blend and he’s off, to some galaxy, narrative and noted, not knowing what throws approach.  He stops to make notes to himself, checks clock, forgot what he saw, keep in scribbles, then types, then back to lined paper.  There’s much in the moment for him, the conciliation of his confinement, lamented.  The book’s almost done, paginated and stated, ready to sell.  He can’t wait to be on the road with his new piece, to talk about it and take all questions.  Even after the book was done, he’d keep writing.  Why.  He had to.  It was him.  It’s what he did.  It’s what he was.