A zipping noise awakens me. Light peeks through my otherwise dark enclosure, and I am lifted up into the scholarly world. My owner, she uncaps me - how scandalous! And suddenly my ink is being poured out as words scrawled on a page. After a few sentences, I am put down. The process repeats itself until I'm zipped back into my home, awaiting the promise of another use.
I love my owner, of course, but our love is fleeting. Eventually, like the many others of my kind, I will run out of ink. She seems to rely on this, and once my supply is depleted, she'll throw me in the trash like I have no feelings.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.