Out of Nothing
I’m frightened of writers, the woman told me. They steal you away. They write you up as soon as they get home.
No we don’t. What we do; it comes out of nothing.
It’s such a weird impulse, this manufacturing of fictions or poetry. The strange concoction of intangibles that writers put together. A bushel of memory and a tray or two of observations.
A paper twist of emotion. A fine gauze of thought. Nothing to hang on to.
A stammered utterance. A roar of silence. Snatched from the air.
The absolute and the implied. Stirred in a pot.