When I close my eyes i am carried to a corridor of infinite shelves of books. These books are bound with incandescent tungsten filaments, their contents a thousand pearly blank pages awaiting completion.
And here my life; my thoughts, what I see through these eyes and the eye that sees when they are closed, my every feeling and experience are written with the delicate thread of the sillk worm.On reading them only those that can fly will be able to take a glimpse of the silky thread that will not be still long enough for any word to form and yet here an image will dance up.
Unrehearsed, impulsive, showing a certain amount of extemporaneousness will come the scribing of these pages.
On other writings one may find the edited swirls of my thoughts, but only because I fear that I at times must research, explore, contemplate and dive into the river of literary flows.
