inked raze i uncapped a black ballpoint pen i found under my bed. i wanted to write down the time so i'd have a record of the most recent audio indignity suffered. i had to scribble a rough vertical line on the post-it note to get the thing to work at all, and by then my fingers were swimming in the sludge the quill called intestines. scrubbing my skin with alcohol eighteen years past its best revealed a rough patch i couldn't explain on the longest digit of my right hand, invisible but tender to the touch. it isn't a wound or a scar. it isn't much of anything at all. maybe my hands are just as weary as the rest of me, and this is the only way they know how to say so. 230204 what's it to you? who go blather from