On the wooden tiles,

the tanned shade a reminder

of tiny grains of sand,

the border to the ocean,

to the unknown.

On the wooden tiles,

where words flow out my fingertips

like a snowboarder slides

over serene snow,

leaving a scraped scene in her path.

On the wooden tiles,

where I do my best thinking.

A journal to my left,

the reminder of my past.

My memories.

A melody of murkiness clearing

into lines of text,

serifs removed

as I'm reminded of the truth.

A font is a beautiful thing.

My mind is a font

of which I paint with lead,

little lines, circles, and swirls

transforming before me,

recorded for eternity

in the open notebook to my right.

Right where I form my future,

my wishes,

my dreams.

Dreams created on a

teal and tanned typewriter,

erasure impossible,

only blocked out and burned,

escape imminent,

awoken as I turn off the screen.