Night is a Lonely Hunter

What is more lonely than the arts--expecially writing? I guess some people write in groups--screenwriters maybe. But novelists--the voice inside their head is their constant companion. So what's so alone about that? I have my Monet puzzles. :) Who can look at Monet and feel anything but a sense of awe? :) Maybe I have just peeked over into the abyss. Two new novels coming up, and I'm not quite sure where to begin. Not like me. Usually, I just start. Probably what I'll do this time as well. So many possibilities. New worlds to conquer. Dream worlds. Sweet dreams! Those words echo through the fabric of time, don't they? Grandmother to granddaughter--and sugar-plum fairies danced in their heads. Colored marbles fitted into perfect wooden circles on a Persian rug. And the child played by the light of the evening lamp while he read. The grandfather. Sweet dreams. :D