1453 0 0
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More and more, incoherent masses of letters scroll through my mind. Ideas struggle to form. Flashes of images flit rapidly in front of my mind’s eye. There are fish, mountains, presents, forests, mirrors - a menagerie of meaningless symbols march pas
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120621
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Phil doesn’t know anything. He thinks his truck is possessed by his dead mother.
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53600
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The weather is chilly here in discomfort The goose bumps raise their black flags I've never peered through domes of eternal bliss Those sleek enough, slide past me I seek the empty company in brown plastic bags, With only a few holes and a branded…
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102286
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and, once in a rare while,/
actual pearls.
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6192
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What counts most is not what's on the page, but what's left to the imagination. Has the writer left room for the reader to participate in the construction of meaning?
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