I love ink. Ink is the most elemental way to write. I love the way it flows effortlessly from the pen, the way its slow creep through the fibers urges you to gather your thoughts and write on. I even love, impractical though it may seem, its wetness on the page, a sort of proof of freshness, what was new slowly drying into the indelible past.

I love the grace of a dipped pen, the trepidation lest it drip, the skill required to use it well. I love dipping into the near-black of colored ink and writing or drawing a clear bright line of color like a revelation. And tucked in my bag and scribbled over my letters, I love a fluid rollerball, a little portable fountain—uncap to unleash.

I love the laziness of cursive, swooping back to cross my t’s without lifting my pen. I love the last winking pool of black dwindling into matte darkness on vellum. I love to stain my fingers. I love the fluid eloquence of ink.