It becomes entrancing to speak over certain sonic soundscapes.
The spell of time it takes.
Some times sometimes equals…
Whispers and hushed cadences of proper pronunciation uttered in exhalations.
Wind chimes play themselves, engaging in an impromptu scratch band jam.
Speaking in silvery serpentine, panting tongues.
Wound about a staff; a string fretted across a guitar peg.
The sun was tired today. Its absence made it more visible than its own, natural effulgence.
What writing is not dependent upon the current mental space of the scrivner?
Like when s/he chooses unnecessarily fancy words to say “writer”.
And, whence does the unhearable punctuation of a period fall in the intervals of this recitation of quotes?
“My lips are dry.”
“They make a topical for that.”
“So, you aren’t opposed to topical on principle?”