There is a trembling. The surface tension holds for a heartbeat; and for a second we wait in the hands of potential.

The ink blobs like jelly. Inside are a thousand strokes of the pen, a myriad of different shapes and forms, a multitude of shade and contrast. 

The pen waits - set in the blocks ready to pounce, looking up - anxious to know the direction it will travel. I inhale - letting my cheeks strain with the pent up puff, then release - breaking through the skin with the blast, insides spilling this way and that - droplets speeding across the page, scared of their own shadow. 

My pen dives in - scooping up a line and chasing it to the end of the road, then scurrying back to join the departing rivulets into form. Hurrying hither and thither in scribbles of perspective and depth. 

Chance settles on the familiar - a thing, an object and quickly improvises on the known in order to scrape down to the unexpected.  

Here are the results of idle thoughts woken with the urgency of the random; and from these experiment of thought - these variations on a theme, come aspects of the soul unbidden, but not unwelcome.

Primordial Ink.

Primordial Ink.