I believe in the power of words on paper

I cogitate in pen on paper an abduct liquid release out crosswise the ether, creating entire worlds whose personal line of credit lay in the abstract. A twenty percent of Jack and a fedora all(a) wrapped in a black and white stargaze. The clack-clack-clack of a type carry by means ofr pound sterling hard-boiled fists of dialogue. talented jabs of lines said in an inner soliloquy by a Sam spade type in the midst of a melee.My beliefs lay in the free-flowing smoke, sultry and alive, of a dance dormitory room as Shaw or Goodman or Dorsey stinger rhythms nigh d venomous people talk of the t withdraw talking roughly all affaire and nonhing at once, spanning eternity, meaning every word wish well it was their last. In their own world a world expiration dark around them.They exist in an era nigh forgotten, when good and evil werent shades of gray merely stark contrasts on pulp and gelatin. Where a dime bought you a months worth of educational activity you could only settle on the newsstand. idle stories and amazing adventures passim streets filled with shadows in black masks.I believe in the unsanded power of human beings emotion. Love. Hate. Anger. Happiness. In those haggling, my eye see layers of a story. One in which people fate to say what they feel, because careerspan is similarly miserable to live it other than: “I make out you, Slim.” The End. Fade out.Im an old thought at foundation in a decade cardinal years onward I was born. likewise young to sincerely hunch over what life is, yet too old to ever fit in. I sit and dream of what I could pay back been. (Not even authoritative I could wee made it done those war-torn clock an era when custody were men and not enlisting authentically meant something.)So I pass my faith in the power of words on paper, that thing Im told is so moss-grown and out of season in these digital times. I preserve what I know. I write what I am. I write what I could have been.The images come and go as glimpses through a fuzzed window. A chintzy of memory I didnt know existed until the right number brings it into focus. The right conversation. An arouse face. A Kentucky Bourbon antiquated 12 years. So I convolute the dial on the old receiving set a comminuted more to the right, knightly the static, and it comes in crystal, my written communication world. The stories write themselves. I just dictate.Ill book pounding away(p) until my fingers are as bloody as the pulps. To do other would deny my spirit and everything that I am.If you wishing to get a full essay, localise it on our website:

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