Mourning becomes morning.

Another busy mofo of a morning. 

I was up at five, a perfunctory kiss for the spousal unit, a pat on Whiskey's head, a cup of viscous motor-oil coffee, then off we go to the Elysium that is the modern advertising agency.

The streets are empty this morning. And the traffic streams down second avenue, hitting the timing of the lights just right so we make it all the way from 83rd to 57th without the interruption of a light. Twenty minutes worth of drive completed in four.

Now, we head across town, heading west on 49th Street, avoiding the Trump tumult a few blocks further uptown at 56th.

I have a thousand words to write this morning, an essay, as it were, on the state of the state. I can't tell you more than that. Just that I have to do it. And, like a hummingbird, my fingers are itching to go.

It's the part of the job I love. And the part of the job I hate.

When you have a pure writing assignment, you are naked. There are no partners or art directors to hide behind. There is little but a cacophony of information--like stray pieces of cloth--that you, alone need to make into presentable quilt.

You take a little from this document. A little from that annual report. Something your boss said goes here. Something else there. Oh! I heard that in a client meeting. That makes sense, I'll frizz it here.

When you have the piece assembled (perhaps that's an "if," not a when) you look at your watch and consider when it is due. Ah! You have an hour. You snip here, you move this there and that here. You cut that--why'd you write it in the first place...what were you thinking, and add that instead.

You read it through, if you have the time. Take a walk around the hall to try to come at it fresh, then read it again.

Like Will Kane in "High Noon," murder is coming on the next train. Are you ready? 

That's my morning.

Have a nice day. :)