I write, one step at a time,
I walk with a pen in my hand.
On a pathless paper,
I meander in letters of laces.
My bag of words
Everyday lighter.
Rests a little wiser.
Each article shelter
In the cool morning,
The taste of silence
Tell me about the other side of the mountains.
Notes & Silence 
Insofar as this speaks of writing, it may be well to remember that the words have meaning only to the extent that they are inscribed on a blank sheet. The void gives them meaning.
Insofar as this speaks of experience, it may be well to remember that our perceptions and actions have meaning only to the extent that they occur against the background of the inexpressible. We are as words written on the void.
By whose pen?
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