Write to Live and Live to Write

Here I am, the nobody sitting in his cluttered office, staring out his window into the fierce darkness.
Oh, a few lights shine across the street, seen through the trees in the front yard. Above those houses, Van Dam Peak rises invisibly I the darkness. Those lights are the lidded eyes of dreaming giants.
Intending to write, I free my fingers on the keyboard, I call it priming the pump, placing my fingers on the keys, letting the words flow. I suppose the process resembles that of a singer, warming up with a breath followed by a nasal hum gliding high to low, a musical sigh.
Or a painter warming up, splashing paint with unabashed abandon on a throwaway canvas, or rolling gesso over the canvas to hide a work that never jelled.
Warming the words in hopes they answer my call.