There is something about the sound of the tip of the pen scratching along a sheet of paper as it leaves behind a trail of letters shaping words that build sentences that fall into lines and paragraphs to record history or sew dragon wings on the heart of a butterfly or confess love or declare war or rearrange the rules of chess as that small vibration that resonates gently from the scars being carved into the pulp of the page through the scalpel precision ink flowing freely with fingertips holding the blade softly as it travels and races against the blood flow in the arm and hits the heart hard and fast and soothes the soul and cools the temperament of the minds eye that is staring blindly ahead to the empty space still left on the page second guessing whats to come next from the sound of music and rage as the point hits and slides and lifts and soars and taps and pushes and glides and cuts and scars letters into words into fairy yarns and painted poems and broken dreams and lost hearts and open roads and dead gods and living sin and it all begins with something from the sound of a pen kissing its dream down on the heart of the page