I am a pen that moves across the blue lines of this page or the clatter of the keyboard on which these words are typed, transmitting their collective zeros and ones into the blue-black light of the text that appears unabashedly unmonitored on the monitor, the screen, the scene of this machine that wages wars on my melancholy, destroys the depressive states, guerilla tactics, computer-guided, cruise missile ordinance.
Ordinary? No. A one-man Civil War. An opinion-piece, op-ed megaphone manifesto.
Rights?
Rites?
Writes?
I’ve got ‘em all, down the the most microscopic minutia, a miasma of Most-Holy **** or Shinola.
My mother is a password my father is a desk. I am a pen, the mightiest of swords, a war within a warrior, no better or worse, just different from the rest.