when my fingers fail to draw,
it is not a matter of pen and ink.
they fail to draw from my thoughts.
they wander, my fingers; caressing through memories.
and yet they fail to grasp a thread and weave.
wallow you must not, therefore, in memories like quicksilver,
for if you draw for a living, you could end up hungry and cold.
ps: lucky for me, i mostly pick others' thoughts to draw.
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