The ink shall always bolt onto the pages of mankind,
if not through me,
then through another.
I’m nothing but another Aster,
another medium for nature to inspire.

My heart is not mine.
My words are not mine.
The ink that flows from within, isn’t mine.
It’s hers.
And to her, shall I be forever obligated.

I’m neither the beginning,
nor am I the end.
I’m transitory, limited and imperfect.
But the ink will flow for an eternity.
To all the future Asters,

let it flow!