“I love working with my hands. My writing is rough, my paper bruised with ink stains.”

“If the ink of my writing morphed into ants, would they march along with my thoughts? Would they find my work as enjoyable as a picnic? If the answer is no, I wouldn’t hesitate to stomp all over my writing.”

“I lifted my Bible in one hand and with my other scooped up all the papers on my adoption. Both hands held paper that contained words printed in black and white ink. Both contained facts. Yet only one held the truth. I had to choose which of these documents I would entrust with my life.”

“Yes; I am a supercargo; pen, ink, and paper are my tools, and without my tools I am fit for nothing.”

“...I deliberately spilled the black ink of despair because my perfect soul was a stained glass illusion - can you understand that?...”

“My children were all made from paper and printer's ink...”