Pick up a pen with your permeable fingers. Your veins, they are visible, and they yearn to leak the sorrow and the joy that trickles in them. Print on paper the meekness of a child, the love of a crow or the sorrow of a rock. Prance with ink and touch the paper with why what she said hurt you today, or why what he said uplifted. Prick the lines with your golden nib and scream at them, scream how obscene society is, how materialism chews at your conscience and how you believe that capitalism is the only way forward. Preach your religion or tickle at being a cynic. Power your words with a world of your own where leprechauns are kings or choose to crash into the reality you live in. Pick up the pen and write, write to change or just because it pains.

Stir emotion, anger, grief. Stir the extremists, the moderates.

Question. Cry. Carve.

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