Rainy afternoon, November, 2015, I’m sitting in a comfortable chair in a library that was built some 200 years ago. The smell of paper, and people, and the passage of time is nearly overwhelming. A little girl invades my space, and looks at me, unafraid, and asks if I like kittycats.

“I do like kittycats, how about you?”

“I love them,” she says and walks away.

An old man and his daughter, I presume take a seat near me, and begin reading. Every now and then they stop, long enough to acknowledge each other’s presence, then go back to their little worlds that are being created by the words on the pages they read.

Symbols on a page, translated by our brains into pictures, emotions, ideas and wordshistories, much like the ones I am creating at this very instant astound me, and give me pause, and I look at my keyboard and can’t help but be touched by a moment of grace.

Is this magic? Or is it science? I don’t know what it is, but by god I plan on using these letters, these words, sentences and paragraphs to the very best of my ability as I spend a quiet afternoon creating something that was not here when I sat down to write.