All those little errors. All those honest mistakes. All the cotton-tips which are so caked by sepia ink clog my bin liners. The time digs closer to 3am. Sober. Held together by one warm cup of tea, and water. These eyes are bullied by the fuck light. Overhead, hovers. Overhead, talks. Listening to Franklin Street cars move through easily.
I ink, I dry, I apply, I curl the wheel. Repeat.