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When I Write, The Earth Moves MAG
in accordance to my will.
I am the starlit specks of silver which burn through the velvet,
and to whom offerings of wishes and hopes are made at my debut.
I am rest after physical agony.
I am silent support during mourning.
I am the clammy akwardness before young lovers embrace.
I am where there is anything,
and where nothing is waiting to become.
I am the creator and the destroyer.
(Though to an uninspired some, I am a mere writer.)
but a mere writer never was,
and the uninspired are insensate
For a speck of silver is thought on paper,
and the uninspired choke on velvet,
and just as easily as I can become you,
You can become I.