I write best late at night. Maybe it’s the silence that forces me and my thoughts to spend some quality time together; a silence that is interrupted only by my fidgeting, or the clacking of the keyboard or a pencil scrawling across paper, or the lack of people bothering or observing or disturbing with their mere presence. Somewhen between midnight and 3am on a good night, when everyone else is sound asleep, my mind is full of ideas, keeping me from sleep and forcing me awake until I let them out. My suspicious mind thinks that anyone who happens to hear me probably assumes I’m watching porn or doing something naughty, but I can’t help it. The urge burns me with fervor most foul; it is an itch I must scratch. As to whether it’s any good in the morning, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish.