Thoughts form, like the takingshape of a character in ink against snow. The limbs of the body, arms, legs, gestalt in sweeps of a brush spilling sound and sense across the page. For that moment of recognition, where sensation bleeds through to resplendence, it is wise to surmise the source; the well from which ink is drawn, and by whom it was filled.
Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.