The only thing he manages to get on the page is the shadow of his hand with its shadowy hold on his shadowy pen. Still, he’s pretty happy because at least everything’s in black and white, as it ought to be. Because he can’t find the words, he he opts to spend his time and ink tracing the outline, but the outline keeps moving and, before he knows it, the entire page is filled with only an unitelligible scribble. He shows it to her when she gets home. “Oh, this is really fine,” she says, adding, “Some of your best work, I think.” “Yeah, I love you, too,” he says.

2 thoughts on “Critique-esque

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