Scribblers sometimes mistake ink for blood, or maybe the other way around. When it happens, shattered glass slashes through pages that, all of a sudden, lack subtle onomatopoeias, even though they were never short of promising continue reading
Tag: ink
My finely encased fountain pen
Lying dormant for years, my fountain pen has lost its ability to inspire me to transcend all the rubicons of corporeality. I used to believe that, once baptised continue reading
One could always use a fountain pen
When did we stop using fountain pens? I used to like the blue scribbles on the pages of my notebook. And why would someone else’s words, if one found them not worth the ink, still be kept in the ethereal depths continue reading
My deathbed bride
When I close my eyes, will they shine once you trade my touch piece for the waterway toll? You know, there is no room for us both, continue reading
hidden pilcrow 