T H E
W R I T E R A N D
H I S
N I B S
The writer will tell you that writing flows sometimes like a waking dream raking thoughts into heaps of prose or verse or worse With effort involved the reward is not necessarily better, given structure and meter, letter by letter, the words pile up - sometimes, used but useless maybe spotless but leaving no mark.
What once a typewriter’s bars clattered and pinged into permanence to be saved or scrunched up and tossed as litter into a wagger now becomes inkless screed on screen, non-existent even, saved or sacrificed to backspace like it never swaggered, befell or became or caused or encapsulated any thought. No casting in stone
Fingers that could maybe bow a cello, brandish a brush, throw a pot, tickle a trout or pick a pocket, choose instead to hammer or tap in the service of creation, dumping mindstep after thoughtfall into pixels or print. Latterday self-serving scribes..
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