The rain soaked through the pages of one of my pretentious hang-ups — my writer’s notebook (used primarily to scribble urgently in coffee shops, sipping mocha lattes).
Ink bleeds. Makes the letters weep and eventually tears the page under the weight of all urgency — indiscriminate between the real and performed.
At first, the haggard and stained hardcover seemed poetic in its own right. (One of my entries, written in red ink, bled a dramatic pink all over the page and the few underneath — begging to be turned into a metaphor. For example, the “word blood flow” and so on.)
But then, the chore of finding a dry patch of page to scribble across became too tedious for the poetry to be worth it. Damn the rain.
Books drying my words on my windowsill.