It Is Destroying Me That I Cannot

There Is A Movement Happening, A Quiet One. A Low-profile, Low-resolution Revolution. Comprised Of Writers And Dreamers, Of Guerrilla Artists And Thought-ninjas. Those With Something To Say. They Communicate Through Text Inscribed On True Public Spaces, Rather Than Blogs And Forums. Choosing Fewer Words, Even Without Being Bound By 140 Character Limits. Using Ink Instead Of Pixels. Sending Messages In Living, Breathing Space. Pens Scream Louder Into The Void. Even If Permanent Ink Is Not Aptly Named.

Grow Up, Bailey." "that Is Precisely What I'm Doing," Bailey Says. "i Don't Care If You Don't Understand That. Staying Here Won't Make Me Happy. It Will Make You Happy Because You're Insipid And Boring, And An Insipid, Boring Life Is Enough For You. It's Not Enough For Me. It Will Never Be Enough For Me. So I'm Leaving. Do Me A Favor And Marry Someone Who Will Take Decent Care Of The Sheep.

You May Tell A Tale That Takes Up Residence In Someone's Soul

Trapped In Silence, Marco Traces Apologies And Adorations Across Celia's Body With His Tongue. Mutely Expressing All The Things He Cannot Speak Aloud. He Finds Other Ways To Tell Her, His Fingers Leaving Faint Trails Of Ink In Their Wake. He Savors Every Sound He Elicits From Her. The Entire Room Trembles As They Come Together. And Though There Are A Great Many Fragile Objects Contained Within It, Nothing Breaks.

Only The Ship Is Made Of Books, Its Sails Thousands Of Overlapping Pages, And The Sea It Floats Upon Is Dark Black Ink.