Writing is the sport of typing, or of scribble, if you choose. You sit in plastic music and compare your thoughts to nothing. Nothing is so vague! You can gain the upper hand by telling Kerouac to type faster. Capote was right, despite an obvious pall. Writing is the measure of the typewriter, or the extent of graphite in a pencil, ink in a pen. It must be time to hear the words someday.
What playground can you fall from, hearing that Martians have proverbs and you can listen? They write with what is left, which, strangely, is just like you and me. Henry James told the amanuensis that the brigantine was empty, and still something was left behind. It seemed like everything to Henry, nothing to the amanuensis. Something and everything must not be the same. Nothing every is.
Wallace Stevens pulled a wallet from his ear; Emily Dickinson spoke of foundries. Like several trees, they smile.