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The Junes of Time
I don't think my muse lives in the dark edges of the early night.  This is the realm of dreams, and such rigid compulsion as structure, narrative, cohesion, these all begin to unravel.  Dreams are ambiguous things.  Even at their harshest, there is still the dim fog laying over them, a hazy prism scattering reason and light.  I think in flashes and sensations.  I wander my wonderings without discourse to the goal.

My muse lives in the early morning light, when potential is ripe and the words, dammed up over the night, yearn to spill free.  My muse is a thing of pale beauty, living in the dawns, the Saturdays, the Junes of time.  There we can meet and embrace, there we can craft, for my thoughts gain a tangible nature in the daybreak.  Gone are the warm, blurred shapes of dreams, impossible to capture, impossible to transmute.  Instead, my muse rides in like Athena, and brings me reason and awe and purpose.

Let us break the cycle of tomorrow, and revel in the Junes of time when they find us.