The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. -Vladimir Nabokov, novelist (1899-1977)
Your ink is only invisible till you decide its color. What will you write in today? Ink translucent as clean water. Ink more scarlet than blood. Ink you’ve made from crushed earth and tears.
And your page? Imagine writing on sand with a twig. Or on water with a feather. Imagine writing on a wall with blood.
You might begin: Now this page is no longer blank…
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