My ink runs low,
My thumb and middle finger kiss once again.
Blank by blank, an infinite canvas.
An outlet so simple, yet so uniquely mosaic
A black and white material form of a colorfully immaterial mind.
It knows me. Each page awaits, listening.
An ear, a voice.
Bound by wire, and tissue of the brain and heart alike.
It captures me, speaks softly to an indefinite audience,
More true than my own self,
An Uncharted territory of limitless possibility.
Each page is another opportunity, each line an expression of the soul.
The blank before the black stretches ever further.
I intend to fill it.