Walking through her autobiography doesn’t get her anywhere. She just smiled past that line, counter intuitively. It’s easy to sigh deep commas in the woods, where she picked up the path and wrote those frosted berries with gin scent back up the mountain. Fountains sprung up through the pine, but never mind. Described as silently as fiction, she tried.
So, is there a point that writes itself into oblivion? Retracing imagination placed like a sound, bound between the covers of write it, fight it, don’t deny it. She sits on top a capital T and sees all those titles flying by a gust of thought. There’s a stream of mediocrity taking her to the index to look that one back up, but a leaf just dropped.
“Imagine lighting lightly, without a pen, letting it drift me out of print.”