A chalice of red is set down on a wooden table with the force of three men.
Linger on the edge, gripping onto gold as if the blood itself contained a soul.
But, of course not.
The soul is only present in the hand, and within is the rushing blood that fills the chalice.
An open vein, an uncapped pen.
Blood released, ink laid down.
Words spoken, creases placed.
Legs cross underneath the wooden table, and the open vein is positioned over parchment.
Take a seat and bleed.
This is the rule to writing.