Writer’s night in

The light is dimmed.

Just one bulb in the corner.

Electricity hums quietly.

Curtains rest in their restrained peacefulness. Long and lush, like veils. So much like snow, like clouds in December, like fog on a crisp November morning.

Behind them, the world, life, possibilities, motion, voices and emotions and

Quiet in here. Still. But for the endless tapping of the keys. Black letters appear on white screen. They picture, assume, form, create life. Sound. Movement. Velocity. Rush. Love and pain and joy and peace and war and life.

Reality created of dreams.

Truth molded from thought.

Worlds explode onto paper.

Universes stretch endlessly – dreamed up to be something of value, something of character and matter.

To be – or not to be.


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