What if my words, designed to fly gracefully on the page, jeweled butterflies are instead dark, shiny and black, tiny beetles that slowly chew through the pages, now brittle, crumbling
No rehearsals here, just a long paralysis, no failure as terrible as the imagined
What is perfection?
The unwritten book with gleaming pages,
The pure raw colours unmixed
The world at dawn of time with no people to slice and mix, to dig, to satirize