That moment before sleep
 I find myself making up stories.  

Characters and ideas.  Dialogue.

Small sparks of something.  

A story made of dragging feet across carpet,
touching a door knob. 

Balloon rubbed on hair and sweater. 

And that quickly the story is gone.  

I wake to find that my story has lulled me to sleep.

A toddler's desire. 

A writer's anguish. 

This story will never be written.  

Undefined characters.

No story-lines.  

No arc..  

No real conclusion.

 A tragedy.