My pencil begs me to put it down, but I write.
The cool lead turns warm as the letters create the skyline of an unfamiliar city.
A city is not enough though, not enough to express these thoughts.
I need a forest, an ocean, a desert of words.
One letter bleeds into the next, forming a full ridgeline.
Smoke rises from my paper.
Dead leaves of old sayings nurture the growing flame.
Soon, I'm writing the setting sun and the painted sky as the page glows pink.
On to the stars twinkling in the night and the moon, calm and noble.
But I need more, still more.
I need life.
My pencil gradually morphs into hot coal, embers glowing red.
I write a new thought.
A breath.
The words take shape, movement instilled in them to never rest.
In my hand, I now hold only ashes.
| 
