What is the action of writing?

The spilling of ink onto a page.

A thought going from mind to letters.

An activity of exhausting the mind of its contents.

Something going from one place and into what seems like a world of permanence — but is not.

A thought goes from brain-body to pencil-paper.

From tool-tool to tool-tool.

But what exactly goes from there to there?

Is there an internal sound to a thought?

What arises in me?

A conversation of twos.

A mind playing Q & A games with itself to deny what’s in front of it.

What is in front of it?

Human animals tucked away in houses, sleeping soundly.
Book amusements on the table here.
Krishnamurti and Rumi nearby.

Conversations with dead men who put their thoughts onto paper.

Thoughts to thoughts.

But what is a thought?

Their thoughts are my thoughts.

But what are my original thoughts?

There is no origin.

All goes round and round.

The snake eats its tail again and again.

Ideas get placed in plain sight, then they hide for a while.

Bigger ideas form like clay and are sometimes fired into cups and pots.

Vessels to be filled by the actions of man.

Guidance to give a thinker somewhere illusory to go.

When the only place to go is here.

The only book to read is the one from your pencil to this paper.

The only time to think the original thought is now.

And low clouds cover the coast.
A batch of crows hurry to go somewhere fun but nowhere real.