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My tools are broken.
I got home today to find my laptop down. It was looking someone taking my voice away. Vocal chords strangled and twisted. And left to console an old friend, paper.
So distant and so long forgotten that I dont know how to start the conversation again. To feel the ink move under my fingers and sleep away from. Knowing that the ink is committed to the paper and no one else.
But my words on the computer were committed to everything. To the infinity of everything, of being seen and heard on the Internet. My tools are broken.
Old tools are new tools and my words are still free.
