He writes.
Long paragraphs about how ink never seems to leave the page and how it always
forms the same strides as it journeys further into the page. How with each new
word a page seems to grow wider and get harder to keep going. Of course this
was a story, a thinly shaped novel about how the world works. How it seems to
lash out and violently caress its inhabitants with each passing revolution. It
was about how the world can be viewed through such a narrow scope like a pen
gauge and falls short when the nib runs out of ink.
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