An empty paper lied there. It felt like it was dangling from the table on the corner of my eyes, exactly southwest my thoughts. Everything I wanted to say rested there, blue lines, silent words, nothing more. Words were breathing somewhere between my pen and that paper. I can hear them inhaling meanings, exhaling silence.
And on the other side, I can hear myself unable to breathe. How can words kill you when you're not even talking?
I guess that's why writers always have that touch of downheartedness.
And on the other side, I can hear myself unable to breathe. How can words kill you when you're not even talking?
I guess that's why writers always have that touch of downheartedness.
