Start with a fresh idea.
It appears crystal clear and lucid,
the fringes stretching and fabricating on their own.
It looks good, so far.
I put my pen down to write.
A diabolic blot of ink drops.
A white haze infuses itself and now it has all become murky,
no longer as apparent.
Almost as if a frosted glass screen has descended, blocking my horizon.
I HAVE to shatter the glass. I stand beside the pile of hammers.
I HAVE to pick one.
A battle to fight, every day. Every day… every day…
every day, a fink.
