sometimes you wake up on a Sunday night (third time in four hours) and you have the most clear thought in your head that you dig around for an unused field notes notebook and you quickly scrawl it out so you can remember it later. and, as far as you're able to tell the next day, it's shouting at you in manic, scribbly diagonal lines.
"in the end, I intend to write about all of it. and it will show up in scripts and it will show up in poems and stories and my blog and sometimes on Facebook, too. it'll make it hard to collect it all and put it inside a portfolio, but I will have made my mark, my stain on this world."
you've succeeded at determining your life's mission, see, and, once you're finally able to get back to sleep (if that's what you want to call it at this point), you promptly return to doing other things that also make a world of sense, like a dropping a deodorant stick in your dreams, one that shatters and turns into really big, really gross maggots.