I do so adore the touch of a fine pen to paper. The ink's subtle strokes, the way the void is filled. There is sound, weight, placed where once there was simply abyss. A glory that breaks down the walls absconding innovation. To be free of such a horrid state which subjection to stifled existences, merely following predetermined paths on rudimentary paths of predictable occurrences, is at hand. Desires at one's fingertips; there are no lies in the strikes. There is pain, love, hate, emotion in its purest, untarnished state. Beautiful, so undeniable yet indistinguishable from the chaotic filth that holds us all down. There is something more, a fragment of the very essence of life perhaps? I do so adore the supple caress of the empty as filled by life force made tangible by fluid on metal and wood.