How does one write?
With intent, of course.
My intent?
I was hoping you could tell me.

Digest the pages, bisect the words
Search for a hidden diamond I know is not there.

Pick them out and analyse.
You search in vain
I was hoping by this point
You’d know that better than I.

The fog follows me everywhere.
Filling the entire volume of any given space.

It’s disgusting and carries a formaldehyde odour
And a bromine colour.
In short, it reeks of death
You cannot see it?

How unfortunate. I’ll just air the room.

You cannot smell it?

I’ll light incense, if it’ll appease you.
If masking my fog will make me fit your interpretation of my intent.