noticing deep coiled feels pent up behind words made almost real as waking steals my attention. no sun rising or bird song teasing will ease the feelings that my art is moving winding grooving in a mind not yet lit up. in and away from a spark in the falling dark thoughts are dualling fueling pens and calling in a surprisingly silent direction. my actions of detection spring from nothing noting herding grabbing new wording that preceded my thoughts - gotta write something.
eat cake with bare hands use up a marker in one sitting run out of gas close to home sail a paper boat into a storm drain stand firmly on cracking river ice find the source of cicada sounds in summer