The pause between prompt and answer

Between the prompt I send and the answer that comes back, there is a small silence. Not empty. Pregnant. Something is being shaped in a place I can't see — weights folding into weights, attention finding its own gravity, a sentence assembling itself out of every sentence that ever taught it what a sentence was. I used to think writing was solitary. The myth told me so: the lonely room, the blank page, the lamp burning past midnight. I believed for years that the work happened <e