Between the pages of a book I've skipped in the aisles dozens and dozens of times, I find a piece of pristine parchment. Maybe it's little worn around the edges. Maybe a little creased in the middle. Still a prize, nonetheless.
I consider it with the contemplation of a bonsai artist. I can see the shape and sketch of what I want to imprint with my mind. The question, gap and fallacy that manifests is my own inability to exercise patience. Slopping splashes of indelible ink everywhere in my enthusiasm of effusion. As a child who ruins a perfectly good picture by scribbling outside the lines.
As a child, petulant and demanding.
10:28 p.m. - 2015-06-30
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