I woke up this morning with a gem of an idea. It seemed I only needed to take up my pen (metaphorically, I type on my IPAD) and the gem would turn into a new piece of writing. But I am at the age now where any delay in conjuring up from memory that dreamlike apparition (coffee, dog licks, or a whizz) dooms the thought to extinction. I don’t even have a trail or a lead. I lost it and the only way I can find it again is to recreate the conditions of waking up out of a dream. I may get lucky and find it. Once or twice I have. I can soothe myself and imagine it couldn’t have been that good since I cannot recall. But there’s a disquietude to the thought, as if I imagine a hundred books lie just below the surface, ones I will never have the good fortune to read.