look there on my wrist the ink runs clean. clean like mud thick like honey, sweet like blood. i write my name in this ink and you are my supply my life needs you, you will finish the book i am the book looking for the end which will never live forever, and you must die and your ink with me, my pages, my life, for my story will end without your ink. this can easily end how but why? why kill so much hate, so much love? why ask your self before you become like me an hungry book.