You can make love to a book.That’s how I call that phenomenon when you start reading and the words envelop you and you start producing your own. The sentences in the book you are reading inspire you. To me that doesn’t equal real love making but this love making happens in spirit. You make love, you make poetry, or prose.

You want to go on reading but your own words keep on coming from within you. That rush, like an adrenaline and all the life’s juicies just pour out or explode like an extatic climax of a volcano.

And you can’t stop and you want more. To read, to write. You want more of that rush. And you are peaceful once everything you have inside pours itself onto the paper.

When the deed is done you pour yourself a cup of coffee, or a whiskey or light a cigarette. Anything will do and doesn’t matter the order or if you smoke and drink at the same time.

Whatever on the page is as pure as gold. Virgin gold that we’ll be reforged.

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