Writing clears your head in a way that’s difficult to describe. It’s a sense of things lifted from you, a sense of freedom that’s found in the stream of electric things scribbled down in notebooks, on scraps of paper hurriedly, tucked away in coat pockets and drawers. You walk through the streets of the city with ink-stained hands and a secret smile that nobody can read, carrying messages to lovers and friends understandable only to you.
