I've Yet to Catch the Title Words...

Stroke. Dot. Pause. Think. Stare. Off. Into space. Words float through the air & they all hover & wait for the ones they want to appear. When they catch sight of them, they glide towards them with their large butterfly nets & scoop them up. Some only grab at the words nearest to them, but others spend hours soaring after the perfect turn of phrase. There's a black-drop, star-soaked sky, projecting home movies from their pasts for inspiration all around. So as you see a mother get smacked or a puppy run over, words float in front. Perhaps, "tragic," perhaps, "traumatizing," perhaps, "funny," because imagination can be an uncaring bitch sometimes too. & The writers are there, picking & choosing their words as they are splattered in front of their lives, carrying them along over their shoulders until they feel they've collected enough & they settle back into their seats & begin everything again. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Dot. Dot. Stroke. Pause. Think. Stare...