Surrounded by books I drown in words.
I picture myself, alone, writing by the light of a single candle. Words spill slowly onto the page, my mind adjusting its flow to the tempo of the pen. These words seem more considered than anything that spits out at the speed of hands at a keyboard. Dancing fingers outpace thought.
Outside in the darkness a threatening wind beats invisible fists against the window. My candle flickers, a retreat into an obscure past. I am buried in the page, sucked in by words randomly thrown down. How they get there is my story.
One hundred books are removed. Ten million once read words unwanted. Ten million flourishes unemotionally scattered into the night. The candle dies but a new dawn arrives.