I wonder—is it a pen?

do you not think it justly to call the instrument of ink a pen?

perhaps only when it is scratched into the page,

the ink which lasts is earned scouring as such.

but when it is found by which a pressing was used

that the creation is a print, and not some toilsome labor.

then let the ink of my labor be that of a scratch, and not of a press,

for there is not a ready substitute for process.

my mind drifts:

envious of the person whose passiono lies in rest.

my own stupor is left on a shelf with dust,

awaiting the next

and the next

the next

should I not be sleeping?

or at least, working?

not in this middle-state.

alas, give me the shamed pen,

and I shall keep writing.

but drifting again, and again,

the thoughts seem to

gather into

clouds in the

corner.

coherence is

abandoned,

replaced

swiftly

by

regret?

No.

noise?

pen. give me the pen. the pen. the pen!

to the press. print. the press!

write. memory. memory; cohesion. the pen. the press

scratch