Do you feel the world go stale, Marcus, crumble slowly like yellowing paper on your tongue, the taste of a stranger’s words written a long time ago, yesterday’s cigar smoke still curling through your mind, your universe a ferris wheel of vapid ennui without a single new syllable in its maw, crawling anti-clockwise around an imploding force.
To stop the blinking cursor, you just have to keep writing.
But Marcus, you can’t just write, a poem that is never read is like that accursed tree isn’t it, was it even written?
What happens next in that scene, after a dozen people hear the tree fall? Or is it just the one guy who keeps walking, disinterested? What will validate your poem?
Or validate the poet?
in the pond again