Traverse into caverns carved by droplets, by time, by the steadfast plop, plop, plot, the deviousness of streams. Drink, drown, float, furrow, flow. Secrets flow, hide, following gravity and mineralogy, following water condensed upon dust.
Drops like cellists, plucking, beating out rhythms punctuating the otherwise random walk of noise. Keeping time, keeping sane, keeping past, with a familiar plop, pluck, prick.
White lines on the road, tapping fingers, a song at the top of rusty lungs. Home at last.
I’m doing a little more serious writing these days. I figured this would be a good place to store some relevant exercises, since I’m mostly too lazy to write up recipes these days.