August 3, 1999: The messenger’s tablet
Sarcastic the soul seems—I laugh and grab two Zantac, sit back and
wait for the next thought to fall. Then it hits me—paper and pen, ink
from the well, paper from a tree…pennies tossed, messages carved.
I wish and dream in two separate forms—words that have always lived and never faded. Seconds become memories, memories pass through time—the well becomes ink, the tree is cut to make paper…my job is to shade in the words already written.