Harvard University

Last night I was thinking about ink. When rain falls on a handwritten page, the ink spreads out a bit, loses its crispness. It’s rarely pleasant. But every now and then, hidden colors emerge. Suddenly you discover that simple black ink is green and shades of blue and a fragile pink edge. If some being creates us or writes the stories of our lives, this ink crafts it all, and in just the right rainfall all the colors resurface. That was my passing thought as I lay waiting for sleep. So I wrote it down. Too many good ideas occur and get forgotten and disappear without a chance to bloom; I…