No more waiting.
Play time is over.
I have to start writing soon. Now.
In the far reaches of my mind I can feel the last billows of smokey embers that wisp away in the darkness and emptiness of my mind of a story, or stories still waiting to be told by me.
It may be desperation or just blind hope, hope that I was sure was long dead and gone by now, but whatever the reason, they were and are still there.
The remnants, the debris, the dying wish a tale waiting to be told.
It is in there, within me, stoic and steadfast, like a sentry in the night, on duty, waiting to be called or be confronted by an enemy needing to be defeated.
I am here to answer that battle call.
…but, before this can happen, I need to breath…, and get up.