and then the solar kitten said: me can write only with tones of tea and food and sweet things.
and i thought – what tones do i write with?
i write with tones of dusk, and coffee with cinnamon and ginger, and vodka, and roast meat.
and then there are days when i write with tones of acrimony, and bitterness and abysmal despair.
and then, there are nights when i write with tones of amusement, surprise, endless wonder and the smell of melting snow. some people say, that is the same as freshwater fish that have just rained from the skies.
there are mornings when i write with tones of mourning and nightmare, my mind writhing in the agony of another getting up and into the wheel of mundanity.
but most often i write with tones of the smoke of incense, so thick that it hangs like a curtain a foot above the floor, and the world is wrapped in oriental mists.
or i write with tones of pale-indigo ink in my fountain-pen, or the mild clicking of the keys of my brain- and key – damaged laptop. or with the swish of soft pencil over the scrap of paper that has served other things before becoming part of my scrap-book.
my writing-tones are so … multi-faceted. contradictory. strange.
even to me, and i have been using them all my life.