'Waiting in the chaotic place of unknowing' : articulating postmodern emergence

It is just before dawn, that still quiet time before the little birds chirrup at first light. I luxuriate in the silence when no one will call or email or knock on the door. It is a sort of dark emptiness. I am safe in the space of my bed, a cup of tea and the warmth of the laptop on my legs. I do not yet know what I will write. The song of the little birds rises up as I begin to type, click click of the keys. Reaching into body memory, half-formed images. Marks appear on the blank screen, grow into sentences, making meaning. I let them keep on coming until they stop then I can examine them, move them around or erase them all with a slide of the cursor and a click of the delete key.