When I cannot write, I look up. Craned neck, closed eyes. I swivel my creaking chair, and open them.
Meditative whir and whirl
Rendered in black-and-white, like rubbed-away ink on a faded page.
*“…beating time along the edge of thought.”-Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 
I like that image. It has neat lines and like the blk and wht. It really does have that rubbed away look!
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Thanks, Jennifer! It is the view from everywhere in our open living area. It’s old and industrial, so of course I find it beautiful. I guess where I am concerned everything comes back to words, even visual things!
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