Writing every word down to letter and line, I cherish every stroke.
Somehow I am doing this, slowing time.
From my mind down the line of my neck to my arm to the utensil.
To the utensil which devours the space on the tree piece, which in turn devours the attention of the another mind, you are quite an invention.
And yet when I step further back, I see.
The utensil in my fingers.
And when I slow further down, I become.
The utensil is me.