“Ink. I am running out of you. And when the heavy bottle is out it will be another kind of death. I could write in my own blood, I suppose, but it wouldn’t suit, and it would so limit my verbiage. I could write in its blood, the beast’s, but how it would heave in protest. I have so little to luxuriate in, I would not run out of words. Oh, please, I beg, do keep me in words. , I fear very much to go silent.”
— Aug 30, 2024 07:10AM
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