The wordsmith’s grindstone

Moleskine in palm; its crude appearance wears timelessly, and yet but eighteen years have worn creases in mine.

Patternless cover; the simplicity disguises the complexity within, for true beauty lies beneath the skin.

L’Plume in hand; its wordy purpose so full of blotted potential, like the creative finger I never had.

Emerald-green, gold-nibbed and poised with majesty. A ceremonial gesture, chosen with care.

Poet in thought. Words come and go, abundantly so, but few seem worthy of the page.

And so the naked canvas; to be purchased by fools who wish to admire something more thoughtless than they.