I try to write something every day, even if it isn't very good, because I don't want to get out of the habit. Tonight, I don't want to write anything. What I want to do is take a nap. The stars are out, the air is cool and breezy, and I hear coyotes howling in the distance. But I keep thinking about those afternoon naps I took when I was four or five years old. The afternoon breeze causing the window shade to bow out, and the shadows of the trees dancing across it, the smell of the fresh pillowcase and the feel of the tufted bedspread and the soft golden shawl covering me, and the sound of birds chirping in the yard. Strange images to come to mind at this hour. I don't think I'll stay up writing late tonight. Better to curl up with a purring cat, and dream about music I've never heard.