A weathered feather quill, point-tip frayed into splayed slivers. Spiderweb spatters inside the margins and bursting from words. A testament to sloppy living maintenance. An infinite river of dark red ink poured from aging veins. Hundreds and hundreds of pages piled into the dark corners of a quiet life. Knuckles buckling under the omnipresent weight of a need to create. And that is the impasse of the author. To publish the striations of one's own mind feels like an argument of bad faith. The seeking validation from the Other, forever. There aren't enough quills, parchment, or ink.
10:15 p.m. - 2019-04-02
Recent entries:
Insufficient Words - 2019-04-24
Pulling Syrah - 2019-04-10
While Away - 2019-04-10
Mixjumble - 2019-04-02
Lotus Falling Down - 2019-04-02
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