Often, I write all day long with white ink on white paper,
late into the night, until it is all I can do to feel the letters
curving to earth from the tip of the pen & then, I fall asleep.
Dreaming of running, or maybe driving in a car the color of water
& I wake the next day remembering nothing & I gather the stack of
paper & a pen of black on the desk in front of me & the words begin to
dance over the page like long legged insects across a still lake
& the words in white whisper behind & underneath the new day.
If there is any secret to this life I live, this is it: the
sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can.
& there is nothing more to it than that.
- Storypeople -
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