01 April 2011


사각사각. The sound of sharpening pencils. Real pencils, made out of carefully shaped wood and pillared lead. On occasional nights, like tonight, I seek solitude, anxious to be alone, then in wee hours, I seek someone to talk to, someone to lean on. In such moments--punishment for fickleness--that sound, of new things to write, that sound soothes and comforts me. If conversation with a true loved one brings out layers of your soul, then writing dives deeper and lets you pour it out. The pleasantness of the wooden pencil skating across the paper is not a pleasure to be slighted, either.

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