The lines on the composition paper are empty.
The chambers reserve blanks.
There are no more thoughts or words,
Only unwelcome memories straining to retain what is left
when there is nothing.
Nothing but hollows howling to be loaded,
still vacant like staffs that await for lead to sink into them,
But there are only pens.
We cannot afford to make any mistakes.
The chambers might be full,
The lines could be covered in ink,
And then there would be nothing.
Nothing but a stain,
And another empty chamber.
- Alexander McCurdy