For writing to live, it needs to breathe.
Not with lungs nor a beating heart. Not with an oxygenated blood supply
Or pulsing veins or pumping ventricles.
It doesn’t need fresh air or comfort or conversation
Or vitamins or moisturiser or television or potassium.
It needs to be written.
Pristine paper, white and clean, should not exist.
Does not exist.
Only the battered and weathered notes,
Marked with ink or graphite
Blood or sweat
That are victims to unrelenting eyes Sauroning
And full stop,
Wear the scars of an aspiring writer.
A brave writer.
No athlete wins gold in their living room.