The ink drips spurts of ink which mass themselves as blots, liquid blobs, reposing or else hanging pendant from the pen. The paper sprawls below, both as canopy and destination. The black fountain pen shivers and trembles in the act of being turned in to writing. The pen wavers, the ink drop shivers. Perpetual replenishment from the inkpot keeps the nib juicy and blue, a rather purplish blue from which purple prose will emerge, iridescent gems gleaming luridly against the whiteness of the paper, self contained, enclosing their own blank nothingness.
The ink is dried. Words , through the pen as conduit, have funneled out, leaving the mind empty. With this severing of thought and word a sudden emptiness prevails, the mind a tabula rasa. Though words are scrawled their significations are still hieroglyphic. They are gossamer, entombing nebulosities. The blank sheet, like the blank mind is a vast palimpsest. Overwritten are remnants of a residual perceiving consciousness. Before the writing was a vast hinterland which stretches indefinitely after it is done. Both purple and prose are out, the reader has now come in.