The Golden Circuit
The ink on the page is still wet when you look at it, a dark smear that refuses to dry, mirroring the bruise forming on the inside of your wrist where the pen has bitten too deep. You are holding the pen. You have always been holding the pen. It is not merely an instrument; it is a limb, a golden circuit of intent that connects your trembling hand to the silence of the room, to the dust motes...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 4 Views 0 Anteprima