A writer's ink covers sheets, worlds of paper and pain. She writes with red ink, and her words are the same. The river of her mind's soil is cracked and dry. So many people of paper that she writes to die. She writes pretend people with real hatred and scorn. In three words she cut you with her tongue's sharp thorns. The blood in her ink thickens with every note she sends. A deadly look in her eye means your story must end.