They hold the door open, ajar to a world. One of discovery. Intimate yet of the collective kind. Joint or alone, finding solace in language one seeks to immortalise it. A map, a trail and time of a place. Placemaking and infinite, part of a larger whole, yet small and passing.

These words found me, reader. Now they find you. A greeting. Never-endin... See more

Writing is you, spread between the folds of a page. A moment, a fragment of something whole. A glimpse and slow revealing of time. Curved lines spelling out the flow of life. The lips and tips of a finger. Timestamps marked in fine liners. A scribble to announce your presence. I am here, says the holder of a pen, the keeper of words.

Something is lost in forced words. Words forced into other words. An intellectualising of art. Like genre, like literature. Writing belongs to the shadows. It reveals itself, it is found not made. Not crafted nor intended. It is a painting.