Scratching granular across the page; ink attaching at the molecular layer to mush paper fibers, bleeding at the feathers into the next line.
Dusty sharp pen scrawls push scent smells up and into my memories. Proust has nothing on mould, pens, papers and forget his damn madeleines.
Candles flickering at the corners of the page, dim lights turning my scrawling into mere shadows, fading from the light, dimly bleeding away.
Can we catch our tears before they drip from the page, and fall as ink into dust?