The paper below my hand is blank, a space sacred but waiting for the human sacrament of voice.

We humans have it. No, no. We humans have lost it. The voices of ours have become less than.

We wait, thus, with the blank page for our own holy voice in the silence. Together, a pair of invalids. We carry these legs using the crutches, yet, of our unsanctified words. The page, the voice, and the words, three who need sanctity to move from formless to form.

This human has ears to hear the unsound of the pen before it writes, and has eyes to see the ink waiting in its cartridge, unflowed, as a non-river of words, before spoken.

When lacking speech, such blank moments used to be the entry ground for mischief. The page has turned. Call it time. Age. Or history. A new master hovers over the white rectangle waiting under my hand, a composer who can write a song that sends serenity over the clouds, over the immortal space.

The paper, the music, the lyrics compose an Irish pastime this writer knows. How inertia moves.

July 27, 2026   11:28 AM