To day I just want to and write and write

It had stopped somewhere between the years,months,hours,seconds,minutes. This was a long gap,I had not inked myself.

I was blank.Some very silent creek has seeped.Sun has blinked.I have tugged at  my ribs to pester them and infuse them my soft will.A loving canvas has presented its edges.

I am dusted and cleaned back today, I can write myself back today.So that imagination can lure me to its lands-I just lend it my hand.

Whatever that is; bringing me back.

What that is-bringing me back?



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