The pen stares at me. It longs for my touch. As it lays on the table, it holds my gaze. Its form seduces me, fills me with textual desire. I pick it up. It rests in my hand. It sighs. We both hunger for expression.
I stroke it across the page. The ink flows freely, letters form. Letters turn to words, words to sentences, sentences to paragraphs. Slowly a creation begins to develop, to grow, to push against the paper and ink that contain it.
Screaming, uncovered, unsure, pushed forth from the confines of its origins, another story is born.
I stroke it across the page. The ink flows freely, letters form. Letters turn to words, words to sentences, sentences to paragraphs. Slowly a creation begins to develop, to grow, to push against the paper and ink that contain it.
Screaming, uncovered, unsure, pushed forth from the confines of its origins, another story is born.
