Had it not been for ink, the romanticism elicited by hand-written letters flown overseas would not have instilled the false hopes that kept the two lovers’ spirits alive.
Had it not been for ink, men and women would live and die in vain, their once-glorious names never to be uttered again.
Had it not been for ink, our chests and shoulders would have to carry heavy burdens for the rest of our lives, never given the opportunity to exhale our worries and spill them onto a pure surface, staining our own pains elsewhere.
Had it not been for ink, books would not grant us the escape from reality we so desperately need on a nightly basis, and we would be trapped in the closing walls of our frustration.
Had it not been for ink, bodies would be plain and dull, smooth with purity and unreflective of the truths underneath it; the losses, the lessons, the loves carried within its core, the philosophies adapted by its mind, the life pulsing through its veins.
Had it not been for ink, two people living in different centuries would not be able to connect; Edgar Allan Poe would not have been able to save a suicidal young man living in 2013, had it not been for ink.