If the words that scrawl across the page by night were ever
read by light of day, what would there be worth reading again? A desperate
question, an unfounded hope, a memory fresh as new leaves? Or will the words be
as dry as ink on the page?
Is it all just a flash, here and then gone? Or will something stay, standing out in the morning bright?
If I had never written, not one word upon the page, would I then find rest, untroubled by these lines? Would I wish it so?
What words will come tomorrow night, when all is dim and clean? What echos of the day will sound, when night stars wake once more?
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