Do not stop the music. The pen must write; the ink must flow. Tales of love, mystery, glory, patience, and zealous wrath must be expressed. And the dance floor – it must permit the waltz of the pen along the lines.
Where mysterious tinges of the heart are exhausted. Beats of the little life-filled casing land on notes high and low. As I groove along the walkway, the highway, over the curb, so my pen draws out patterns of messages onto a blank piece of paper.
Sketches of a more beautiful future etch themselves into the pores of dried pulp. Silent whispers of the great beautiful mind go with every little step on which the pen imprints itself. Dreams are left to unfold and expose themselves, albeit naked, for all to scrutinize. Pour out the pain, the dirty little secrets of the side no one ever knew of!!!