What Kinda Proser Are You?

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I love people.
I love to eat.
Doesn’t mean I love to eat people.

I’m in love with wonderful writing.
I am in love with hot, slippery sex.
But I ain’t in love with writing about
wonderful, hot, slippery sex.

I dig books.
I dig empty space.
I don’t dig reading empty space.

My nature is to share with others,
with the expectation they will share
their thoughts with me, to make me
a better person all round.

Prose. is a unique medium for sharing,
so I drop what I’m doing in the real
world and share something I just conjured
in a dream or scribbled on toilet paper.
Other like souls do the same,
maybe with something less flimsy than the loo roll.

Under a lucky star, we take a moment and
paint our thots about someone’s artwords.
Most do not give this moment of their time,
thus never experiencing what truly makes Prose., Prose:
the warm, raw meat, freshly cut from one’s heart,
spiced with the essence of a soul,
and served in small, delicate fronds,
wrapped around a core of secrets and puzzles,
all pining for the attention of just one cozy body
who sees what others miss . . . or dismiss,
sense the new and novel that awaits beneath.

What if you risked a few minutes of your day,
got off the northbound train at the nearest stop,
and took a long walk through the Prose. forest?

You stop every few steps or so to admire the vibrant
flowers and the last of their midnight scent . . .
after all, it is high noon.

You bend down and run your hand through
the warm, moist soil, let it run through your fingers,
while millions of invisible magic crawlies and cooties
diffuse across your skin and swim through your
canals and ducts and slip-n-slides.

In moments, you feel the euphoria from the heady potion
and its dreamy quantoretta. . . .

You love people.
You love to eat.
Doesn’t mean you love to eat people.

You’re in love with wonderful writing.
You are in love with hot, slippery sex.
Who knows? Maybe you're in love with writing about
wonderful, hot, slippery sex!

You dig books.
You dig empty space.
You probably even dig reading empty space.
Because you love dreaming up words and the meanings
underlying them, surrounding them,
sustaining them.

You come to Prose. to discover a rich mystery,
a secret and a puzzle.
And when you’re off, you leave something behind,
a small gift: taking a moment to let someone else know
how their artwords *moved* you,
if only for short whistle or tiny smudge in time.

What kind of Proser. are you?

One who steps away from reality momentarily
to enter the magical and wondrous forest,
to admire the vibrant flowers and the last of their midnight scent. . . .