I chewed open a ball pen the other day. The ink spread on my fingers, my teeth, my lips and my face. Looked like I had war-painted my face for some arcane celebration. Everyone looked at me like I was insane, as I smeared the ink all over the pages, of a notebook that I bought from a homeless man who offered to mend my shoes in Sector 15. The whorls and spirals of ink on those pages, they turned into animals, birds, clouds and mountains. Like stray drops of rain, liberated from the sky, the pictures rhymed in the most brutal ways, I've ever seen.
It left me with a bitter scowl on my ink-stained face, for I had never seen something like that happen every before. I went home and rubbed my face with vinegar, trying to rub off the imagination, but like a curse, it stuck fast.
And now I am, all blue and black.
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If you're cursed with imagination, it's your duty, your religion to infect as many as you can. I am doing it, are you?
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