Four Ten.

We sit,
Not uncomfortably in dull screen light, coughing through half meant sentences,
We can't write.

We fall,
Not chaotically in moments of blocked truth, reflective of a ripple.
We will write.

This is what waiting for insight is like, stretching out each others creative process is as painless as it sounds,
Sharp and barbed wire.

We cut,
No shards of paper here, no wounded biro to spill its guts in a last blaze of seemingly overwheming glory, just a process of eliminatimg keys until they strike a chord.

We read,
Reems and reems of unfiltered nearly thoughts, splashed over pages, not so meaningful as the plastics of our screen.

This is what writing is like. Painful but calm, like slow asthmatic breath, soft as candyfloss and blue wind that winds inbetween thoughts at the very back of your soul.

We connect,
Try to find equations of reality to tap into our plight but these are just words. In the end, just words.
We ache.