Page sticks to oneself; indentations upon indentations. Soon, it will all- or perhaps later?- it will all homogenize into a gestalt; a brain. Then, not long after that Exodus of the Neurons ™, the piece of wood will reanimate, shaking my hand and fishing for planets simultaneously, like any other sentient being that remains aware of the dome domain above us (or adjacent to?)
This is no performance, it is mere proof that my stimulant is optimal, that I breathe with vigour in my feet and weight in my fingers. It is a display of my gradual decay, foretelling the prognosis that I dare not utter: what can I do if I fall under Alzheimer’s heel? What then? Will I forget of the paragraph that I had just written beforehand? This pen, will it treat every word as a home to rest its riches in? This vagrant of a fool, he must remember his treads, the soles of the people that have led him to wherever he’s gone. What is the Joker without inspiration? What is a dancer without awareness? What is a figure without substance?