Some kind of insistent chirping that takes a hold in my head. Like a tune I can't stop humming. A popcorn shell stuck between my teeth. An eyelash that I can't find in my eye. The ghost a memory, that I am not sure was reality, or something I imagined so hard that it became real.
We are all mothers, in this way. We bring things into the world, we nurture them, we care for them, we look forward to their future. But sometimes, just sometimes, mothers have to eat their young and it's always a bitter experience, even if the survival of an idea hinges on it.
A life for a life is the trade. We become what we hate most. There can be no running away from that. If you don't remember that tune, the tune will remember you. The ideas that you eat for survival, their ghosts will haunt you. The only good thing to do with an idea is to make a kite of it and fly it high and when it reaches up to kiss the moon, let the fucking thing lose, cut the cord, let it wander into the world.
If the idea really was yours, it will come back to you, on wings made of fire.
Read fast. In one breath, if you can.