Blindspot

From whatever may flew in these pure words only emerges as the thoughts come. The muses guide the hands the fall upon the keys that type. Letters click across the screen, and the only true thing in the world is the words that are formed. This procession of thought is uncontrolled and at times redundant in its emphasis. My will is my own. And the words, they come from my hands. But each letter that is chosen to form these sentence is nothing more than inspiration granted by chance.