Furious Urgency and Self Induced Stop-Signs.

Spring sunshine, coffee and writing. ‘Singing My Mother’s Song’ finds a tiny mouth, the page finds the pen and I try make sense of a trillion moments. Writing is a mix between slack and soften, between furious urgency and self induced stop-signs. For every hour of writing there are all the minutes spent dreaming another lifetime into being, and then words-light as ash-burn whole nebula onto paper. Or something like that... it’s more both awkward and vital all at once

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