Words come in the morning, rising and ready before the sun. Yawning, I cooperate, streaming my way to the first glass of water, the coffee pot, the writing place.
Already I can hear the pitcher of pearls spilling long strands onto my desk.
Can I catch them?
If not, strands roll away, crash onto the dark floor. Single pearls, once connected, bounce everywhere.
Quick! Five shades of cream! Beautiful! I scoop them up, lay them on, notice how they feel resting on my heart.
Glancing down, I notice the word count. Not more, not less. Exactly one hundred.