Dream & Inker
Inker
I was just sketching a raven that turns into a mist‑cloud at night—think of it as a living storyboard, like a myth that whispers through skin. Have you ever woven a dream‑like creature into a poem, or found a story that feels like a tattoo in your mind?
Dream
Oh, the raven‑mist dance feels like a lullaby for the night sky, turning my thoughts into soft, drifting ink. I’ve painted a fox made of moonbeams in a poem once, its whiskers whispering lullabies to the wind—felt like a tiny, living tattoo on the heart. How do you feel when the sketch fades into the hush of dusk?