Woodlands, 50 km. On and off, I sleep perhaps four hours. I awake with a poem in my heart, perhaps five stanzas long. Since sleep is elusive, I think about cycling. Actually, I thought about that last night too, but was too tired to roll out the tyres. I read for an hour, go back to bed and when I get up and write, the number of stanzas has more than doubled.
I finish reading the Wall Street Journal, then turn to an old book which I last read perhaps a decade ago, as I recall it might help me solve a major work problem.
I cook lunch, wait till it is cooler, then on the road I go. I recall bikeshop man saying last week that my bottom bracket has started to oxidise. Can't be, it's just a few weeks old. Yes, something's eating it up, and it's eating me too.
By the time I get home, the poem has grown to 16 stanzas of five lines each. They have rhyme, they have rhythm.
When something's eating you, you can get destructive - or creative.