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Quentin Briscoe Apr 2012
And yet my page goes blank...Full of A lil bit of nothing and a whole lot of space...Which has turned in to a lot...of white..or blue, red, beige, or black
What ever color the paper is...Emptiness...The beginning stages of depressions...the first wave of creative supression...but then eletric sparks..light waves of electrons flowing from my left lobe to my right hand....From my ego to my id...Reaction...satisfaction...Then ink, lead, chalk, what ever I can grab hold of...blood...I would stain this space with blood...for these words will forever be a piece of me...Forever be the life of me....The death in me...And Words fill up my void..the artisic fasination of a blank page...That has been splattered with musical notes of my rhythm...composer...after composure...chaos...after breath...and then masterpice...Wala the ****** to the story...The finale' to the show...The perfect piece of expression upon the page...And as it is turned...My page goes blank Once again...

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