Of The Work

There is something to be said of one that writes. There is an awkwardness that comes with this territory of pulling art and light out of the air. The spacing out, the tuning in, the people watching and grinning at the funny things the invisible people in your head talk about or will do.

The staring happily at blank screens and new pens, giddy to race the deft of your imagination. Being alone in a created space, yet never totally alone. With words pull you from sleep, and people and places and comfy spaces.  These people and worlds tumble and bubble as you race to get it all out. Indeed, how fast can you log immortality?

I’m yet trying…

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