Pied white ‘n dull-green ‘n shim’ring black, treasuring the trove you’ve gathered.
Itsumo to eien ni.
Itsumo no keikai.
Take the ink from the (FlexGrip) pen; articulate the uncontrollable.
Am I ever writing this? You were always reading this. The stars knew they were burning…
Writing about sharing writing.
(to the usual) time of day,
adorned with diff’rance.
Cities in parallel, blended; the nearer past and ancient times.
Momentum felt as sep’rate moments: such is time.
Sounds, not syllables.
The city is mapped.
To a-waiting ideas, then, return.
Will it be as the still air?