authoring destruction

Open table space and wall space enough to fling a story between two heads. Tools close at hand with which to explore sight, sound, words. Tiny bedside altar with the candle burning; bloodstone, basalt. A bottle of ink. A drop of blood. A knife at the foot of my bed. One long-breathed note and fine whiskey sweet in my mouth. The earth always against the soles of my feet. It's all I have, my two hands, my stones, and my steady flame.