words are better on paper and candlelight the smell of ink and crisp turns of pages white the binding creaks and soul writ in this screen is not the same thing friend it's maddening for this phone to change my words ah, how often it does so as if it knows as if it grows what could it show when has itself, alone so rowed of feelings felt or horrors shown or magick felt or fury spoke or walked along a razors edge hanging on by just a thread or strained beyond all known thought or had a thought that wasn't taught or quenched a lust so fervent wrought or plagued its mind with glory sought or told a tale that others'd not what a soul that this thing's got