It is 4:30 in the morning. While a good portion of the American East Coast is rising to start another day, I haven't finished with the last one yet. I have worked through the night, which, to be honest, is not that uncommon an occurrence for me. That miserable pattern of lying awake staring at the ceiling, sitting up to read for a few minutes, lying back down in the dark... ...getting up to pee, flopping back on the bed... ...plodding to the kitchen for a snack... ...watching the numbers change on the clock, and wondering if sleep is even worth it at this point is all too familiar. However, this night is different. Normal insomnia has taken a leave of absence and filling in is a burning in my soul so deep and powerful I simply must answer it's call. This fire, my friends, is the mark of a writer. Tell me: have you ever felt that tightness of the chest, constricting the very breath in your lungs save just enough for the one story that begs to be t...