The page is a cliff. You approach it with trepidation, wary of the fall, uncertain of the distance or the landing. The solid ground of not-writing below your feet, and the sheer drop, a wave of cold air, then… nothing. How can it be a daily practice, this throwing yourself off a cliff? No wonder the mundane urgencies of daily life call you back from the edge. No wonder time runs short and obligations crowd between you and that impractical, improbable, dangerous leap. It’s not about trust. That is a cliff; you cannot fly. It’s not about skill; falling isn’t exactly an art nor an Olympic sport. On the other hand, to stay awake to the terror of it and the freedom, to fall with your eyes open, your pen moving, to observe, to discover, to feel the sting of the wind, the texture of your acceleration, the weighted weightlessness of the plunge, to say, this is how it feels, this is how it tastes, this is how it’s done – that’s a super power that beats flying, even. You’re alive, primed to attention, no idea what will happen next.