a blankness- covered in pale white-is what we are with no color drawn, with no self.

in the milieus of all tolerance there is an horizon with no depths or lengths for which to be; its being is an object- we become object- in this empty vestige of canvases.

if all flows easily, nothing of worth is flowing-nothing that gives complexion-  

as you draw breath, draw with strength and clamour from your chest as if you are alive and you shall be; if you oppose being nothing but a wind in the world, a passer-by, a fleeting moment, a blank- stand firm and solidify into stone

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sonnychasm

Literature, art, science, travel. Writing fiction, non-fiction, poetry. Always wrestling with language.

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