Life. Less. On.

Always have a deep inkwell, never a shallow one.

You can write with anything, an elephant’s trunk or a wished-upon lash, or in the sand with a stick you just killed something with. Maybe some poo, or any kind of goo, even glue. Sweat has been used, and a tear or two. In B.C, blood and mud were quite good too.

Save some of the ink for yourself, only if just a drop. Maybe dab it just below your right eye, on the crest of your cheek, as if to dive in the wild wide abyss of your blank white space. Some may laugh, calling it an evil mole. Yet others will call it a heavenly mark, so it will be those you will write for.

Get tired of up. North is up. Try down, where it’s warm. Heaven is everywhere. Own it, bastardize it: I’m feeling down now means I’m feeling warm.

Shout into your inkwell and you will hear, a fearless echo flowing back in swirls of indigo and gray. Now is a great time to write, of love and sorrow and everything in between.

To write is a right rite.