“ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.”

“I loved most when his eyelashes twitched and he blinked, and suddenly happiness was there inside his eyes. Unmistakable. Like a single word printed on a clean white page.”

“See you in the funny pages...mate”

“once i knew the blinking cat could not really blink, was just paper and ink.”

“The visions are fragmented and a dark cloud spreads like spilt ink across the pages of possible futures.”

“When you read a manuscript that has been damaged by water, fire, light or just the passing of the years, your eye needs to study not just the shape of the letters but other marks of production. The speed of the pen. The pressure of the hand on the page. Breaks and releases in the flow. You must relax. Think of nothing. Until you wake into a dream where you are at once a pen flying of vellum and the vellum itself with the touch of ink tickling your surface. Then you can read it. The intention of the writer, his thoughts, his hesitations, his longings and his meaning. You can read as clearly as if you were the very candlelight illuminating the page as the pen speeds over it.”