writing

It was a fresh feeling. The pen smelled like marzipan (sugary grains of matter tickling my nose) as I took the lid off and went to make a mark on the paper. Like having a tattoo done (though less painful), I interrupt the milky white surface. Areas that were once white become black. It’s like the hole Wile. E. Coyote painted on a wall, expecting that damn roadrunner to splat into. The only real difference is that it is my perceptions that are slipping through the ebony crevices. Like the grand canyon in miniature crossed with the nazca lines, it indicates that the gods may be into LSD.