What is wrong here? What is right here?
What is the essence of eloquence? Is it merely a matter of language, an emergent property from lifeless concepts and simplicity? Is it about symmetry?
When does rubbish become eloquent prose?
Are you immune from my state of mind as trained fingers emit words beneath a glowing screen?
A window gazes from a point several metres inside a room, upon a mauve-pink sky with just a hint of tangerine and imagines a writer.