It’s 4:49am as I write this. I’ve been up since 2:30 and haven’t been able to fall back asleep; perhaps it was the two soy lattes I consumed during the day? Or was it the consecutive cups of green tea, sipped and refilled multiple times between coffee runs? The Lord Jones, I love you—but even your CBD tinctures are no match for this kind of self-induced insomnia. As much as I wish for a full night’s rest, I’m grateful for these early mornings. Half the world is already up and yet it feels special; entirely my own, open to possibility. These are the sacred hours I feel most inspired. I read; write; stretch, if I’m feeling particularly saintly. Today was too cold to attempt the frog pose, so instead, I choose the easier, more human route: resume Henry and June from the comfort (and warmth) of my bed. It’s not until I reach for my lemon water—once hot, now cool—when I realize just how captivated I was. Then again, when is Anaïs Nin not addictive? Utterly enthralling? I feel so much in common with her (which feels blasphemous to say at all; me? Merely mortal and incapable of such complexity and experience!) and yet…