The beach house we stayed in had a room on the second floor that we called the sniper tower.  A hot box with a day bed covered by a flowery white comforter.  Three walls of windows, no door and a domed ceiling.

Nobody wanted to sleep in the tower.  The room remained vacant except for sunlight which, due to all the windows, remained strong inside the room from morning until nightfall.

I wrote in that room.  Propped up pillows.  Took off shoes.  Notebook. Ball point pen. Settled into the sunlight.  Listened to the outside until I started to hear my words.  Then I put them down. All of them.