I bleed ink. Words and ideas are the sources for my Bread and Butter- better, for solitude.

Dance of my Pen sacrifices its ink. For what greater purpose? To Reveal. My Pen obliterates the hardest of the Steels, the tallest of the Walls, the ignorance of the Stubborn. For what greater purpose? To Reveal. But every word I reveal, my life, and that of my consanguineal relations, are placed in Jeopardy. It is as if every word that comes out from me moves down the guillotineinch by inch. My neck, unfortunately, is on the frame. Writing is never like Russian Roulette, cause results of what I

have written are never random. Two outcomes are only definite. When you let your pen bleed; Live or Die. Write to live and write to die. That is it! No more, No less. But still, I continue. Though the pen dries, and stops to cry I know that every drop of its precious Elixir,

the unscrupulous scrambles because of fear. But fear, itself, I should fear. Retaliation is possible, not only through Words but also slugs and bullets. I am the pen. My blood is the ink. With the drying of my cylinder, Conterminously, the death not only of my words and ideas, but also of my Body.