She wakes up from a dream that was so perfectly story-shaped that it was irresistible. She does not know where it came from or if it will work out on paper, but she knows her muse woke her up so she could take some notes and maybe start working. Time is precious for someone like her - job, two kids, household tasks. Every minute she spends writing has been stolen from "something more important", as the voice of her father - deep inside her mind, he died years ago - keeps telling her.
But now she will write. Writing is the only thing that keeps her functioning in the outer world. Her muse's voice is louder than the dead man in her head.
The small table where she usually works is covered with playing cards and dried up cocoa cups. Her younger daughter had some friends over last night, and the apartment is small. There is a chocolate stain on her cheap note pad. She doesn't mind. Things like these happen.
On her way to the kitchen with her hands full of cups and dishes, she crosses the living room. The cats have made a mess of the plants on the windowsill, and she puts down the flatware. Much time and care goes into her plants, even more since her children are almost grown up persons and so utterly independent. She ignores the whisper - only a few moments and it will be done.
The kitchen is a mess, but now she is in a hurry. In less than half an hour her family will get up, and then there will be no time for writing. She creeps back to her table. Where is that damn biro she uses for her notes? After frantic searching she finds it next to the TV set. Someone used it to circle interesting TV shows in a magazine. Why can't they leave her stuff alone?
Don't be so egoistic, she calms herself. Maybe they were in a hurry.
As she finally sits down, her head is quiet. The pictures from her dream have got lost on the way, and her muse is silent once more.
Outside, the cold winter sun starts climbing the roof of the city.