Ink

Parker quink, dripped freely from my fountain pen. I only noticed once it started trickling up my wrist, staining my skin and my gold plated watch. Writing notes on playing cards, a whole deck’s worth, because the plastic coating doesn’t hold the ink but the pen still scratches out the words.
The notes go in my leather wallet, where most of my imaginary things go. So down by the chemists I can buy some throat lozenges, cross it off my ace of hearts and move along back home to take my medicine and get some sleep, to paint my pillows black with flakes of drying parker quink.

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