At night, in the darkness, when everything is still, my brain can imagine anything. As a child, the darkness meant I could construct stories, populate them with characters, progress the plot daily. The moon lit the trees and flowers, the snowdrifts and snow forts, the piles of leaves and stacked logs, turning them into creatures of my own invention. In the night, everything is possible.
I am grateful for the middle of the night for it is then that the scathingly brilliant ideas find their way into my world.