My attention was caught like webs, twirled between his fingers where he must have held his pen. I have no idea why he caught my eye, as these eyes would never see him , not in the conventional
sense. I was as ignorant of his name and his whereabouts as I was about his presence in my periphery . But his words! Spontaneous combustion , the generation of such heat that letters and punctuation flew up in a rage of spark and ash forming words, conjoining into sequences of emotion rarely seen.
The fact that he ignored me completely was intoxicating. I was bound and drugged. His prose was at once my heroin, my dynamite and my fuse.
Joy R. Wilson Parrish (c) 2018