I could write for another hour.  I could have been writing the last four hours.  The process starts in my head, and my head has been cranking out the tidbits all day.  Seeing your eyes for the first time, closing the door completely, trying to open the window, surprises.  I could do this, I could.

But I won’t.  Not yet.  I can turn the faucet on, but I’m not ready to think about things yet.  Actually, that’s incorrect.  I’m content to think about them the way they are, in my head alone.  Once I start processing them, making them digestible, that’s when it all gets away from me.  I hate not being in control.  I’m worried I won’t be able to turn the faucet off.  I’m scared I won’t ever take that risk.