warm fingers swift and smoothly in the air, I watch the words come undone in front of us, they splatter sweetly onto the page. you hand me the paper and my crooked fingers curl around it, your magic lingers, stains the tips. the words continue a flow as you thread, into my mind labyrinth through the holes on my cloak and I watch, baffled, the golden streams falling with care on and in-to my skin. if magic is that which nature can-not fathom; your words as alien as the meaning befallen every-time your fingers cross'd mine.
the smooth current of energy from a beloved writer's soul