I drag the ink. It’s all drawing now, the digital click has set that straight. It takes an hour or two for me to draw a letter, complete with messy sketches and figures I’ve known since school days torpor. When stamps were cheap each week I’d send a few postcards with etched lines and outbursts but missives feel more of an investment now, I’m careful not to mess them up and swerve the costly scrunch. The content is largely unchanged. I scuttlebutt, riff and rant much the same as I did when I was fifteen years in but I’m not as sharp now and the connections take longer to pan from the memories. As long as I can find the grains and a voice I’ll keep scribbling the notes to my bewildered and scattered compadres.