Remember when the ink, a writer’s tat, like a cobra spiralling ‘round fingers and arms, wielded power. Splotches, balled up, thrown into the basket hoop, flooding the creative canal. Ideas danced like mad flames, charming, rhyming, flipping, flopping, finally happy, no crossing out, neverending editing, feathers flapping, inkwell splattering, until the words must be kept.
Eyes...
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