The light goes out yet the two fools argue but more. The ink
drips from the pen to paper and stains my white shirt.
The man on the right has a tongue much like an iron sword; the left
is like an obsidian blade. Their words-yet- are as harmful
as the dripping ink.
You stood behind looking, gazing, staring, then rolling your eyes.
The light flickered, then the lamp in the far corner. The sword struck
the obsidian blade. You became poison from the fangs of a snake-
alas. For I-I was the man of ink.