There is something so precious about the act of writing. Not typing. Writing. The feel of the pen between fingers. The bleed of the ink through the paper’s fibrous veins. The onslaught of thoughts seeking to structure and align themselves in the moments as the pen hangs in limbo above the paper. The words spilling from the tip of the mind, tongue and pen onto the page erasing its stark whiteness as the hand invokes the page’s limitlessness and its refusal to criticize.
So the writing continues . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . During my break from posting I created two 8track mixes: Waiting for a Call, and So Long Sweet Summer. Enjoy!
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haha personally i kind of despise writing by hand. i guess for two reasons: i have poor penmanship, and i’m really lazy. anyways thanks for posting!