The page sits. Blank. Accusatory. Insulting. Beckoning. Asking.

Pure potential. Perfect until the scratch of the pen, the tap of a key.

Ink mars its surface.

Ugly, ignoble text tainting the pure page.

Scrawled lines form structure, length and breadth. Form.

Paragraphs build, stretch, end.

Pages fill, once empty, now lined and scarred.

Chapters grow, enveloping, consuming.

A beginning begins, an ending appears, a middle connects.

The story exists.


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