The Waves
by William Bain

A few minutes before dropping off to sleep I pick up my pen to write. The letters come harder and harder, growing brittle and bitter and beginning to break before the nib completes them, like dry leaves in a winter wind. The hand then stops and the pen keeps writing.

To solve the problem of ink first buy a pen or brush—movement of these follows leaf drift on air or water, wide or narrow arc—limbs and twigs in space don't discourage the problem of ink—music races it, like cooking over open fires in summer—knapsacks bulging at the seams disappear—there is no unique problem of ink—ripples whisper—

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