A clean pure page
A virgin page forever desecrated
By ephemeral impulse,
now made concrete.
Limitless, potential power
spent on will-less meanderings
Of a stream of ink
that flows like time,
Slowly, inexorably,
but without time's onward direction;
Instead it flows towards the right,
at least, from where we sit,
But also downward;
however,
the depths must be finite;
We do reach bottom where we can touch,
Turn the page, and start anew,
if time itself doesn't end the book.