It used to come as easy as breathing.
When thoughts would betray the mind, infect the heart, creep down the arms and through the hands. The touch of pen to finger tips as ink injects words onto a white page.
There was a ferocity to this pursuit. The meaning? At the end it was, but concealed from start. Trying to be smart, failing. Not a wall that'***** when the skull to crack as an egg shell to make omelette.
Ingredients pre-mixed, pre-chosen and pre-empt. For the taste and the smell.
The air of knowing truth. As inundated with emotional attachment as it can be but truth to the brain to ease the betrayal.
Mix cheese through, it's always nicer that way.