I look at the still wet black ink drawing I have just made.
It will never be more beautiful than it is now
and no more beautiful than when it has dried.
The paper is puckered thanks to the moisture
the wet ink imparts.
A tension exists between clear expanses of dry paper
and the black islands of fresh ink.
The paper shows its beauty.
That particular degree of imperfection
is in a constant state of changing.
Like your face held gently between the palms
of someone who accepts who you have been
and who you are and appreciates
your ever interesting imperfections.
You are the wet ink. You are the dry.