Saturday, November 5, 2011


The words on the page ended abruptly, the middle of the sentence building up to an adjective that could not be formed. His words stopped their flow, like a blood clot holding up the stream, the rest of the veins beings drained of their rhythm. Circulation of thought is lost in the right side of the brain. Inspiration is a fickle lover, she comes for a short time and it is beautiful and strong, an experience you can only hope never comes to an end, but you wake up one morning, searching for that skin to caress only to find that your lover has gone. Left in the middle of the night with no goodbye, and there never was a reason she went, it was just part of her nature. Don stared at the end of the page that poured off like the edge of a flat world, like the rest of it was still waiting to be created.

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