mockery

inside of every writer, there's a set of words that make that person who they are. there's a set of words that seem to never fail them. a set of words that make sense to them and them alone. today i was laying on my couch and i was humming nothing but sounds. the sounds turned into words, and i began to sing really quitely. it was almost a whisper.

this is what came out:

"from the colours in the sky to the root of all the trees,
your clock work, and mine, every leaf on every tree."

i sung it over and over again.