Alarm clocks are not conducive to getting ideas from that time/space. Or even lying awake waiting for the alarm to ring.
But you lie there still half asleep and you think, funny how I've never had linguine but plenty of spaghetti.
Next you get an image of a bird pulling a grub from the bark of a tree.
Think of the light bulb that needs changing.
Cold rain today. I'll twirl my rainbow umbrella to make it go away.
The horses at the wedding were restless, nervy, their coal black heads near the carriage were like a scene of impending doom. At the least a disaster.
Zebe will have to die. The image of the alien taking her as it jumps into the sea, is too good. It runs along the bottom of the sea like a ghostly white orang utan. Probably it doesn't realise she can't breathe under water.
You see how the border gets wider and becomes thinking about a story plot in a completely different series, most of it to be written sometime in the future. Zebe is the MC's partner, And he must be left without anybody finally, to come to grips with what he becomes.
I'm doing this before I go off to choir. The time between posts is ever my worry. I must go now.