20.09.2020

The book in front of me. Forming in front of me, by me, and through me.

I would be doing something, anything, and then I'd feel drawn in, I'd feel an urge. A longing for the story.
I let go, I hold on to the pencil, and find myself writing away.
Carving, forming, unfolding. 

All I have to do is let it come through, without so much obstruction. But an eye for construction.

As it all comes through. 

This is me, on creation.