The half asleep slide of ink. The ease at which it melds itself onto the tributes of the products of the earth.
The way it can feel so natural can be so soothing, yet guilt inducing.
But can you deny the physical satisfaction of your mind and testament so easily glossed onto the paper, like the perfect fit of the cog of the machine.
The ideas trickle like the quiet flow of a creak and yet gush like a geyser that has held onto itself for far too long.
Pour down the ink, the paint, the resin, he tears, the blood.
Enjoy the chaos of the viscosity and the vision.