Flowing and tumbling out of the old mans finger tips, he lovingly caressed the the words that came spilling out of the ink pen. The magic words that told all, but some, of his mind uncapped. It was a moment, a moment too pure,too...loving for mere mundane words to be told. The simple acts of injustice towards open as it scribbled, was all, but worth it. The smell of new thoughts being formed, was a benefit, but a real reward was of it put together. New with the old, old with the new. Licking his pen, the old man scratched and scribbled a story, but not just a story. The writing was him, and it was he. A unity that could not be broken, but the the flaming roars of fire and the uncaring closed mind of men. A unity so pure in its being, but delicate tot eh viewers perspective on life. The world open beneath their feet, but still, unable to quiet grasp it as the old man wrote...