Back to type,
my fingers, ink,
techno-natural
creativity pours
from neurons
onto white space
in the birth of matter
from primordial idea.
Home in my small
unkempt cave
under blankets,
hunched over keys
alphabet blazed
symbols on their chests,
I type to fill time,
and empty my brain.
While writing
has great tradition,
and infinite canvass,
my boxy white corner
of the universe is happy,
caught in its own trap,
expanding slowly
with the rest of everything.
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