Writing is a broken line that connects us to ourselves like stitches mending flesh or making a quilt out of the mismatched patches of experiences begged, borrowed or stolen from the fabric of life.
The ink is the thread. My pen is the needle puncturing the veil, puncturing the vein of consciousness for a transfusion to cure the confusion of the senses.
My PC is a sewing machine. The stitches are cleaner, but you can’t hold the paper because it’s just a mechanical thought until it is rendered, surrendered back to the physical world
where it can be folded, bringing together words who otherwise would not meet except for us matchmakers who turn breath into truth.
Literature in Small Doses 