He gave me a pen. I thought it would give me stories and pictures. But not these kinds of stories or pictures. I don’t mean to write these things. I don’t mean to draw these things. These are not mine.

They are the pen’s.

Don’t look at me like that. This isn’t me. These words, these creatures. I try to use the pen and it does this. It comes from the pen, seeping out from the tip in red ink. He put these things in the pen.

This ink and his blood, it’s one and the same.

I’ll show you.