"You like too much!" she said to me.
"Make up your mind!" she cried.
A cartridge emptied of its contents
The things it could have produced.
resurrected lithograph golems,
who groaned at the consumption of their
Why does my pencil glide across the page?
I should have taken to the study of flesh and blood
unlike the girl who speaks in tongues.
Perhaps she's right.
Perhaps the world doesn't need another performer.
Perhaps... there are already far too many.
My tongue ripped out,
My brain purged and washed.
No more slicing into pages
With my graphite-knife.