Apr 2018
I'm not myself when I write like this.
I am no more than a memory.
An ink well river which flows and bleeds on tempered sands.
Forever resting at the foothill of childhood.
I am.
I am no more than a memory.
An ink well river which flows and bleeds on tempered sands.
Forever resting at the foothill of childhood.
I am.
It strikes me as odd. That I write so much and yet remember so little of what I write. But one word, one line revisited by me, and I'm right back there in the moment of its conception. Silly self. Lolol.
