Ink.

When it all runs and it bleeds as though the paper were nothing but a wisp of imagination…

When the author gasps and moans as the stain of what was once his friend now becomes the foe, casting a darkness on all that was good.

When the story ceases to breathe, to find a way to grasp for light to salvage what might’ve become.

There’s nothing left to do but watch it bleed.

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