The skin becomes cryptic under the pen, struggling for a different kind of damnation. Killing cells, painting them in ink shouldn’t be tolerated at such levels of creativity, the creation the skin cells would never conjure.
Oracles should know the paintings are better on skin, that tattoos tend to create themselves after a while. That it’s the body that needs the drawing in order to remember the moons that passed and the wolves that cried out in the woods.
Musically, the pen glazes for one last time and then hits epidermis, succumbing its poisonous colour. Oracles stretch their arms, as the skin screams at first. It soon gets used to it, dealing with the mayhem turning ubiquous.
Pens arising from every limb, every face and finger, toppling the temples in which the oracles crush their necks and draw white chalk circles to protect themselves.
There’s a signature of every porcelain, building and tissue. The membrane of the world cracks like a nutshell as a giant pen encrypts it under the sign of a giant tattoo of porcelains and buildings and tissues.