the ink eel lives in the inkwell. it is the size, in any dimension, of the inkwell. when the inkwell is closed it sleeps. when the inkwell is open it watches the pen.
it has been suggested — without proof — that the eel is responsible for the small dark blots that appear in correspondence between strangers. when the letter sits too long unsent, the eel consumes a comma or, more rarely, a name. the errata then shifts to compensate.
it can be coaxed out with a clean nib but does not survive outside its medium. in palimpsests its trace remains: a faintly serpentine line beneath erasures, thicker at one end.
— the inkwell was empty by morning. i had written nothing the night before. — t.r.