On the wooden tiles, the tanned shade a reminder of tiny grains of sand, the border to the ocean, to the unknown.
On the wooden tiles, where words flow out my fingertips like a snowboarder slides over serene snow, leaving a scraped scene in her path.
On the wooden tiles, where I do my best thinking.
A journal to my left, the reminder of my past. My memories. A melody of murkiness clearing into lines of text, serifs removed as Iām reminded of the truth.
A font is a beautiful thing.
My mind is a font of which I paint with lead, little lines, circles, and swirls transforming before me, recorded for eternity in the open notebook to my right.
Right where I form my future, my wishes, my dreams.
Dreams created on a teal and tanned typewriter, erasure impossible, only blocked out and burned, escape imminent, awoken as I turn off the screen.