Writers carry notebooks. Inconspicuous.
Filled with intriguing scribbles, made while sneaking looks at the dark-eyed girl on the subway.
What if it happens that a bit of thought gets snarled and no pen lies in wait to catch it? What if an urge — a rage — violent — arises, tips over some words and no pen lay near to soak up the shame?
What if we finally fell in love at first sight?
So writers carry notebooks with them. For those moments when napkins are not enough for a piece of ache that needed documentation.
For days filled with people who walk around, wearing their stories on their bodies like sacred scars. Without consent, writers leave them stranded in vast, empty spaces. They draw in the wrinkled lines, darken the shade with lost love.
Carelessly, lose the dreams, hide hope.