I used to write everywhere and on any surface -- paper (of course), napkins, the side of a coffee cup, my leg -- feverishly trying to capture splintered thoughts, haunting moments of possibility, the torture of a longing heart, wishes on pennies in fountains, an intoxicating kiss...
Bad poetry and gushing prose bleeding all over the place. It was messy and honest and free.
When I read back through it, I hate most of it -- but, I do find something pure. Something present.
Obsessive moments permanently inked...
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