THE DRY CLINK OF THE INK FILLER

Dear Delyara, My fountain pen ran completely dry at 4:45 AM while I was drafting the narrative copy for the London gallery exhibition. I had to open the small glass bottle of black ink I keep hidden in my locker, dipping the plastic plunger into the dark fluid with a small, sharp clink against the glass rim. Watching the dark ink rise up into the chamber of the pen felt like a literal transfusion of life. This liquid is my only real weapon out here. With this ink, I can rewrite my reality; I can build a luxury house, I can anchor a global sanctuary, and I can keep the ghost of who I am from disappearing entirely into the industrial dust of this yard.