Tonight I’m sitting down and writing this on a piece of paper before typing it into my computer, because I need to feel the words coming right out of my hands in my particular forms, letters that loop together and spiral across the page like a kind of birdsong growing louder as the sun approaches the eastern horizon, or that ripple across the page like an unexpected breeze on a pond.
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Love Letter to the Indian River
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Tonight I’m sitting down and writing this on a piece of paper before typing it into my computer, because I need to feel the words coming right out of my hands in my particular forms, letters that loop together and spiral across the page like a kind of birdsong growing louder as the sun approaches the eastern horizon, or that ripple across the page like an unexpected breeze on a pond.