blankwhitepage.

The cursor stares at me rudely. It blinks and beckons me to push it across the page. To give it motion, the contant kind. To force it into a neverending slide across the rows and columns, leaping back and forth to the end and back to the start in a stream of words that fall from my mouth and onto my hands. In no particular order. It pulls these ribbons of words from the page and lines them up neatly and they obey it like soldiers ordered to stand at attention.