I have a process. I don't even know my own process. At least not entirely. But my atoms do. My fingertips do. Sometimes it's my eyes that do. When they look and tell me to delete entire sentences and paragraphs. Pretty sure that's how it's supposed to be. Sometimes I have gears hard at work when I'm walking by the river and nowhere near my giant arse old fashioned keyboard. It sounds like mama's old typewriter that I first wrote on when I was little. Which, incidentally, is part of the process. Process is strange. But also magic.