The ink has been wandering in my heart pushing itself to come out through the pen and fall on the empty paper; fall on the paper and say what it had explored inside. The ink is dark, like a night without the moon;
Or the stars.
And It smells like smoke.
Or maybe ashes.
Yes, ashes.
And ashes don’t write. They only bleed.
Nice
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Thank you 🙂
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You are welcome…
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Wowowow! ♥
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