something visceral

  (I prefer black ink – it always felt classier. The transition between writing and sketching came easier with the same dark ink. It glitches for a second on the paper – black to red, viscous like blood, blood? – before it goes back to midnight-ink, a shade of the sky. Hair, maybe. The sound is far more important, however. The repetition of the scritch scritch scritch has always soothed me. I picked up the pen, my hand shaking. Black ink, midnight ink, inklike hair and blood and all of it together – absent of the sound. Where was the sound? I must’ve run that pen till it ran dry of ink. The sound disappeared without warning. The sound always disappears without warning.) I put down the pen a long time ago. Or at least, a version of me did. It is not like I gave up on my craft, I tell myself. I would never give up on my craft. And even if I did, I was just the sort of pathetic to come back anyways. But why wouldn’t I give up? The red glares at me, so vehemently so. The answers ...