Some days, its streaming, steaming, storming from your fingertips, a sluice like rain rushing off the shingles, into gutters, down, onto streets, right off the curb, pattering, pattering, slamming down the trunklines, roaring as they meet, a thousand synapses fire and meaning pour down toward my fingers. My feet rap staccato, nervous twitches, but those aren't the words, not related.
Even my breath comes in broken gasps, heaving. and then, suddenly, its gone. Everything, wasted.
There's power in a blank page, a potential, much the same as a brick suspended. The second time, the third, that power is tinged with dissapointment, more and more.
Moral? Save often.
No comments:
Post a Comment