I lay ink to paper until it is drenched and its thirst is quenched. I elaborate over useless nonsense until the beatings of my heart are steady and my hand shakes less every minute that goes by. I battle with synonyms until the equal is not just equal, but superior. But my ink doesn't exist.
Although never ending, my paper and pen are code. Interactions. Light.
I spill all that I must on intangible lines and hope for release.
Then I turn on the TV and forget that I used to have a brain at some point.
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