Thirsty

We always end up back here, at the keyboard.

Or maybe it’s a pencil, or the drums, or the paints, the fabric store. The darkroom.

In some of those times when I repeat myself over and over, it isn’t to hear the sound of my own voice (other times, it is). It’s because I want to Get It Right. And I know I can. There is always an arrangement of words woven across tone and pause to help you feel what it is that I’m experiencing. Sometimes there is more than one arrangement that will do, but like jamming orphaned puzzle pieces together, the final picture comes out disjointed, warped into something wobbly, or even wicked.

So I try to take my time. My instrument, in ink or light, forces me to decelerate the eager tumbling of my mouthed mind, transforming the stream into a trickle until, in reverence of all this Potential, I collect every last drop, and offer you a drink.

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