The scribbles of a sharp black pen start marching on a dusty plain of a well-kept, old piece of paper. A spicy scent of caraway, thyme, and fizzy lemon zest showers the warm air of the studio, as the ink immerses in the muddy cellulose. With a short, tired breath, falling from above, classical notes of cedarwood and vetiver are easily sprung over the ancient wooden desk. The mind swims in uplifting alchemy of liquid amber and atlas cedar oozing from old books. With eyes shut, the poet is witnessing the first acts of creation.
”A red river of wine is flowing down the paper weaver” - a humble story told by a self-titled sinner.