I found an inkpen, so I went out and bought  bottle of ink for twelve rupees. I came home and spent an hour trying to fill the thing, as it’s “suction mechanism” refused to function. Finally, I succeeded. The floor has battle scars, though. And so did my hands.

And so I write, with my ink pen. It’s not pretty, but still oddly satisfying. I write in a pretty blue book I bought, about nothing and everything. I scribble and doodle and shudder to read what I have written, but still I write.