It’s not soul-feeding to lust after a thing, to love an object.
But oh baby, I gotta have this.
It’s a contraption in pen form that allows you to write on paper, spilling and capturing poetry and prose. Or whisper sweet nothings, moan as the muse is called. Once spent and sweaty, simply penetrate a USB port on your laptop or PC and all is released, left transcribed to soft.
Oh to the my to the goodness.
Spiral notebooks holding tiny explosions of thought are scattered throughout the house. In the car. I write in every free moment; with feet immersed in mani-pedi, naked in the tub, waiting for an oil change. I keep a mans-thumb-sized digital voice recorder next to the condoms next to the bed. There are hours of honey voiced files saved there, observation and realizations. Secrets and desires.
Mama needs it.