At the break of dawn, the last dregs of night still creeping to the west, I was woken quite suddenly by my muse, dragged bodily to my desk.
I had to write, my hand did itch, my pen was calling my name, The time was ripe, the verse was right, I had to feed the flame.
The smell of ink, the scratch of nib, they all fuelled my writ, The feeling right, I began to write, my eyes but squinting slits.