Ink is a vital fluid. Ink flows and binds. Ink is as fundamental to the transmission of ideas as blood is to oxygen, as semen to intergenerational conflict. I use ink daily to excise thoughts from my brain, to scratch out a half understood meaning and structure to my stupidity. I have ink on my fingertips. I have ink in my skin, perhaps as a prosthetic personality, but hopefully as a measure of control over form. Ink is a vehicle for essence. Continue reading