The black ink flows over the page like water, soaking everything in sight in a midnight swirl. Another pen to add to the stock, another pen for my collection. The pens build up in piles, one from a Japanese brand, another from the bookstore down the street, they each serve a different purpose, she tells herself. This one is for the thin lines, this one for the bold, beautiful lines. I write with this one, and with this one I finish my letters.

The sketchbook fills with the lines of passion, and at the end of the day joins it’s brothers in another job well done.