The winter sun streams into the window low and bold whiting out the screen stealing the letters as I type I question again why I tap the keys and make the words it is something anymore akin to paint on board it can not leave my hands set deep in my DNA this need no want no necessity no call this thing that is forming letters into words like color into painting it lives in me rises in the morning and takes a breath along with my breath anymore so that I can not tell which came first my becoming here on my birth day in the world a small creature squirming in the nurses hands or this now this color and brush this type-touch and word form
I suspect the colors were spilled the words were formed and only then my body took shape reached into the world and gave first cry to the light