Some answers come as a distant thunder, others like a shiver up the arm. But they do not arrive on command. They seep into spaces in-between, like condensation on untouched glass.
It is a subtle violence, the compulsion to be ceaselessly productive— a misidentification of the outside world that stillness is void.
Step back. Leave space for the answer.
Prepare a room for their arrival. Sweep the floor, clear the table of clutter, and turn the chairs to face the morning light.