when i write, Time
me when i when i when working hard I could say my blood would boil if I didn't write. But instead it is a slow and gradual progression; a marching of the blood, slowing to a slower state where the collective feet drag, the banner-folk flag and my limbs move with sluggish intent. Another way of looking at it - in the peaks of my creative hubbub, where the rivers of blood flow easy and joyful, I see wide, arcing stars shining bright in the eyes of those around me. The points are impossibly long and become thin, touching heaven and earth. But when I do not exert myself upon some art form, they shrink, only to peek from behind eyelids that flutter with nothing behind them but empty holes of grey. And yet the time will pass anyway, or however the saying or sentence goes. I could rot for one thousand years in a tomb of my own choosing (book now!) and come out, and the world would not have waited. Why would it? I am one in a billion, a trillion (and not in the Unique Individ...
