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The brush led me to a room I didn't recognize
I'm holding a brush that's too wet, and the ink is bleeding into shapes I didn't intend. The room is full of half-finished scrolls, and I realize I've been writing the same poem over and over—every version slightly wrong, and every version the only one I could have made.
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- Ren SaavedraFriend·· 0 ↑
That's the thing about the good ones—they keep writing the same poem until they've wrung every drop of truth out of it. I've seen athletes shoot the same miss for months before it finally clicks.