The light is perfect right now in the evenings as I ride my bike home. It stays bright until a little after seven, undermining the power of clocks. Block after block, the smells of night rising, of summer rising: curry and garlic, incense, roses and jasmine.
I have been too busy at night with a project to get up early and write. It is a short-term schedule change and one I believe will be fruitful. Staying up at night is now a little exhilarating, along with the strange reality of waking up at five-thirty instead of three, the insistent sunlight seeping through the curtains startling me.
At the beginning of the week a writer who has submitted a few pieces for the flash fiction magazine I run sent me a scathing letter condemning me for my tardiness. He used the word circus and concluded with shame on you. I wished him well and used the word circus for the next story prompt.