Blunted edges and blotched linesInked sinews and paper-thin fibersSlippery threads of skin;Obsidian-soft and raw–The composition of thoughtsAnd their infrangible pulseCarved upon the faceless white,Where understanding may be foundWithin forbearing flutters,Always seem clumsy and without purposeAt first;Like formless ideationsWrithing out of nothingnessFeebly graspingToward a sense of cohesionWrapped in cursive streamsThat begin and endAgain and again–Not in Continue reading