Ink, my ink always deep deep black, black enough like a midnight. Far enough from the sun.
But this ink is different from the ink which always write on me. This ink still on afternoon, but black enough more than a midnight.
Dot, just a simple little dot. Written on the corner.
Not even a word, not even a line. But the dot is like everything. It’s just one single dot on the corner of paper, but the dot make the paper full, not spreading but just make it full.
The paper can’t be written anymore, and the dot can’t be erased. But where is the ink? That ink? Just gone. No more dots, lines, and what I wish can be written, a word, a sentence, a full story.
It’s just gone.