Sunday Afternoon - Writing To Writing Not

Pulled through fingers, the writing stops at  keys - hit-hit - then timelessly becomes part of the screen. Or, pulled by fingers thoughts become writing that - hit-hit - timelessly, er, oh,...: writing. What is it I ask? Writing to friends perhaps.... One in  New York, one  Tokyo, one in Seoul. And one whose place he can't name.... But the hit-hit here is of a summer heat, spread  by a sky of Titian blue, making me damn sure I'm not in New York; is of a quietness that's pinned by a single bird-song outside, making me sure I'm not in Seoul; and by utter space - so no Tokyo. All writing me into this place, which is I guess, a name. A week, into a day, that's leaking yesterday, and shaping up tomorrow. All, writing.