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, it is this: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that.
by Brian Andreas for Story People
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Half-serious musings on architecture, student woes, and the quirks of life in the city.
No comments:
Post a Comment