These parentheses are but a whisper, the dreams of men, the faint whistle of winds, the fading of paint. Tragedy lives in what is ephemeral.
Themes are reactionary. We need walls to jump, reception for the fallen tree to make a sound, necessity for creation, silence for a speech.
It took me three days to write a single word after I returned to my old wooden house. I let it build up inside myself, let the syllables collect like drool on the tip of my tongue.
The world isn't done yet.