Wednesday, June 17, 2015
The dream blurs. The pen stains. Most of what I write will be discarded later. The pages upon pages will distil to a handful of sentences and the scene I thought I was writing will prove to be nothing more than preamble. A tease. A misdirect. A different opening.
But. I get closer, period by comma. I get closer and I remember, on those sacred days, what it is to be a writer.