photo from google images
I love ink. Ink on my fingers, ink on the paper.
We have something in common, this person and I – this flowing writer's pen.
Tomorrow, we get up, write again.
Ah, yes... this weapon, this writer's pen. He writes because it's his job, I write just because, but tomorrow, we write again.
They both go hand in hand. Thoughts in ink – the way we think; into black darkness or grainy, rough sand.
Yes, this writer and I.