First Ink (Pen redux)

I drew my mightier-than-the-sword pen and spilled ink on the virgin page.  I came, I saw, I wrote.  This page, nay, this journal is mine!

A humorous event:   I asked my wife, who was running an errand yesterday near the stationary store, to pick up a new Cross refill for my pen.  Late this morning while writing something at work, the cartridge ran out of ink.  I’ve been thinking for some time I was about ready for a refill, but it wasn’t until yesterday I felt it with some urgency.  Maybe the pen and I have some strange supernatural connection?

So the ink I laid down on the pure, white page was itself, also virgin, fresh, pure.

Was that ink at the top of the cartridge, what emerged first, thicker, richer, the fatter part risen to the top, perfect for lush, dense, amazon sentences?