Verbose

An unfilled page is like a festering wound. It drives you mad with a constant itch, a nag, a personal goal but a social pain. Some love to itch and colour it with blood in riotous reds, some let it get yellow, fecund in yellow rebellion while some make it go white with tubes and antiseptics and make it a clinical chore. Nevertheless the page will be named first. Labelling as the society's best pastime admits to itself here.

Later the self-same words will then arrange themselves into organisations and rallies and clubs. No countries of servitude here and no sermons of religion to adhere to. They fall with military precisions with dots and tucks and zits and zig -zags into broad lines. Seems like they do not have any problem aligning their forces with their neighbours as word after word contain the selfsame alphabets. Zealous labourers, they work for their keep in a fastidious way that makes their management weightier with idioms, phrases, nouns and verbs guarding them religiously.

Then the layers arise, like boiling tea gurgling out in a tea preparation, giving the tea its all and lying like wastrels or prisoners in the end only to be seeped out in a sieve. The unfits, the misfits, the ones that got away...Some let the tea go to their heads, while some keep sipping and not quite tasting, warming themselves for the next. What you write is apparently what you get.