A new paragraph, that’s what it is. I write and I write, paragraph upon paragraph with no end. They want content, and I have an apartment I rent. I stop up and look back at my paragraphs, at their structure and I can´t tell if their good, bad or just there. What I do know is that they are there, but how did they appear? I don’t know what I wrote, I don’t know what I´ll write. Then my creativity stops going, well tomorrow will probably be all right.
Line for line, that’s the structure, perfectly aligned. You can see the white seams, the space, the void between each line. All of them perfect, and then comes the weird one. It´s thicker and shows the space between my paragraphs, my paragraphs it binds.
Sentence upon sentence, they form the line. Every sentence unlike the each other, put together, together they work fine.
Sentences built by the words, words from somewhere. My hands they write, my mind is blank. Isn´t it queer, my conscious not here, yet I write like I´m a frontier. The words form in my head out of nothing, and becomes black on white, all the while my conscious takes flight. Once or twice I made him write, my consciousness doesn’t get fright. He is another side of me I don’t want to be, and when he writes it´s clear to see. Hopefully tomorrow will be all right, hopefully I can sleep tight tonight.
