The eyes begin to slip, the head sinks involuntarily first to the chest and then to the desk. There is a feeling of lightness and indifference within the body, and also a particular calm emptiness at the mind. The voice of someone in the home, suggesting we go to bed instantly, most often brings us from the state. And in general to prevent such midnight vigils at the computer. Which adds neither thoughts nor health.

 When the sudden burst of inspiration and ideas eventually melts, and gradually dawn slowly creeps outside the window, we relax into a very brief nap. Peaceful and having a sense of honestly completed work.

 But often in the middle of night that a surprising jolt or a completely incomprehensible sound abruptly frees us from our tranquil condition of oblivion. In vain efforts to figure out what it means, sleep gradually goes away. It's substituted by a range of different notions, which begin to swarm in the half-asleep head.

 Preventing material, checking email, getting money, running a search engine, picking keywords, rummaging through the jolt file, sketching the design. Dig up another sea of articles, systematize it, and examine it completely.

 The fingers dangling motionlessly within the motionless keys have come into life and the thoughts that were vague prior to materializing letter by letter, on the display of the monitor. Vagueness turns into outlines and clarity. Previously formless abstractions acquire emblematic bodies. Elusive notions are embodied in the text.

 Then, for one hour or so longer, we slowly realize that the effort to return to the condition of oblivion is not useless. After which we awaken resolutely and sit down at the computer , or at the table. And we try to somehow correct the swarm of thoughts and ideas that's been bothering us on paper or in a file.

 For as long as I remember I really like to write texts... My eyes float away into the unknown space, my palms hover hesitantly over the keys, while my mind stubbornly «believes the thought". The mystery of creation of some other masterpiece is concealed not only in the eyes of outsiders, but also from the writer himself.

The muse, though, hurries on with her unknown affairs. Stream of consciousness slowly slows down, gears and wheels of the brain in mind creak a couple more revolutions. Subsequently the gaze slowly gets duller and also the thought-movement stops. The procedure for imagination imperceptibly passes to a state of stupor.