Monday, November 23, 2009

Hear the printing press against my head, I breathe in the deep acrid smell of the ink they use. Letter by letter the ink jets across the parchment in a flurry of metal and pointed tips. Words press into the scroll as if tattooed, I feel each alphabet press into my skin as if it was I, and not the paper, that was being art-ed. I turn and around me is the sky, I am on a cloud, with naught but my typewriter, and my demons.

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