There is this moment of being a writer that repeats itself, unannounced and erratic, in the most darnedest of places. This moment I'm talking about is a welled up suckerpunch, landing somewhere between chest and gut. The feeling hits then spreads, something intravenous--warming neck then elbow crook then shin bones. Maybe it is less moment and more need, internal and urgent, all over. Not just a need but a must. I do not simply need to write things. If I miss this moment the black hole widens. The flame pulls to smoke, a cell might give up. Sometimes love and necessity get all mixed together. Sometimes(these moments) I know exactly what my duties are.