(no subject)
Ah, writing. Delicious blank slate surging with possibility.
I could meander through the depths of hell if I wished, guide a boat through the river Styx. I could charm and hypnotize the dogs at the gate, goad and chide the gatekeeper himself. He'd be poisoned with self righteous optimism and undeniable wit. I could kill with vervacity.
Or I could be kayaking out in the middle of the ocean. The sun would be just rising, warmth would gather and reflect off the horizon inside me. Seabirds would wrestle cloud tangles, and sliver silver fishes from the surface. I would spot a pod of whales and muster up mournful ballads, call and response, jazzing it up.
Oh yeah.
I could meander through the depths of hell if I wished, guide a boat through the river Styx. I could charm and hypnotize the dogs at the gate, goad and chide the gatekeeper himself. He'd be poisoned with self righteous optimism and undeniable wit. I could kill with vervacity.
Or I could be kayaking out in the middle of the ocean. The sun would be just rising, warmth would gather and reflect off the horizon inside me. Seabirds would wrestle cloud tangles, and sliver silver fishes from the surface. I would spot a pod of whales and muster up mournful ballads, call and response, jazzing it up.
Oh yeah.