I carry a notebook,
I pull it out,
torment people,
jotting down notes.
Reserved for ideas,
like bolts screwed in the brain,
hanging in the window is a tug of disappointment,
for the notes have disappeared.
A glistening heap,
my allure of art falls.
The art tells an expensive word,
a steady value.
Painting realistic canvases,
an exclamation point,
A piece of fog rising from the pattern of a notebook.

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