I thought I had insomnia. Waking every single morning at 4, with a sudden and very real urge to run at top speed in a field while screaming. I thought something was wrong. And then I remembered that I was born to write. To write and to write and to write. And I don't have insomnia at all. I just have bones filled with forgotten and ignored words; marrow thick with silenced stories. And at 4:02 this morning, I finally asked myself, "What if I finally just set them free?"