SEVENTEENBird wings, Sandie scribbled on a yellow legal pad.
Something like flying
Something like burning
When the sky slips away and leaves
Only blue stars.
Each one has a voice. Nebula magic.
John twanged quietly on his guitar, but Sandie could feel him listening in on her creative process. He could have talked if he wanted to, but he did not. inefficient, he told her. He talked to Mike, and he talked to Connie, and he talked to Nacho, but talking aloud to Sandie was pointless when she could know/sense/understand/hear him just fine.
words make feelings, he observed. same-different like music. how?
Sandie tucked her pen behind her ear. “They just do,” she said. “They make you think about things that make you feel. How do you do it?”
dots little dots moving combining moving. tin
