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momebie
[Source.]
It's like you have a god damned superpower. This ink moves through you, coursing in and out of veins, pushing your hands across keyboards and pads of paper and canvases of concrete. You have desire. You have drive. You have a small, impotent feeling of loneliness when they leave you, so you hold them in. You sit for days at your keyboard, refusing to let them out, afraid that once they leave you you'll be nothing. You'll be alone with the ghost of that desire.
Be wary. Ink is also poison. One way or another, either you or they will seep free.
