and the thoughts started to arrive as little butterflies that pose under the brilliant sun for me to watch.

They stood still, carefully still, they were arranged
in a form yet unseen, they were
calm, colorful and surprisingly
quiet.

Then the wind came, blew
them away as it does with the newly
written story of a little cautious
writter that didn't have a backup
copy; and the mark goes back to
zero.

Then the thoughts begin to reorder.


It's never the same.