An inkwell is overturned on the desk, black spilling, staining, creating you. A clean canvas. Wit hands drag themselves along this endlessness, disturbing, rippling into existence a fine white line. They press and the line thickens; lifts and it lightens; skips and it dashes; spins and it swirls. All for Your solo dance. The white follows wit, lines capturing you, finally holding your silhouette, finally finding form. Oh little picture, euneirophrenic is your waking heart, your shape here on this canvas. My sweet darling. You don't deserve to sit here alone, lost with cecity, empty with isolation, nor plagued with black lungs.
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We Are All Written in Ink | Jacobus Marthinus Barnard
