Friday, May 14, 2010


Creativity could be like a storm- huge and thunderous, ready to pound into a fragile body. Mine is this tinkling bell, a little voice, this tiny little sweet imp that compels me to pick up a pen, one of my books, and insists upon being recored on the page. It likes tangibility, it likes existence. It wants a safe place to land, because even the most beautiful and free of thoughts need to rest for a moment.

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