Today I have no name, tomorrow I have no one to blame. My path molds to my feet out of fear in becoming an obstruction, yesterday my path simmered in conception.
Birth, live and death, in between these words a story is created. More permanent than the ink that lies inside the threads of a tattoo canopy, even more permanent than the ink whose home is a Sharpie.
So before your ink dries and you are unable to mute out the negative lullabies, create your story. Allow the masses to read, give them delightful morsels that inspire their mundane feed.