As I sit here in this chilly office, often warming my frigid hands about the glow of my single candle, I examine the delicate tendrils of my writing feather. Okay, it is a pen, and it rests now in its finely faceted glass inkwell. What an invention, the pen, mightier than the sword. Of course, when men get up to killing each other, they rarely use pens. They usually prefer longer implementia, like missiles, that can stretch out across the miles. Sure, pens are good too, you could write a few rhymes about your enemy (that'd show'em!), but the militant mind tends to prefer the sword to the pen. The bazooka to the sword.
What an invention, the pen. So simple, really. The sharpened end of a feather, dipped in the juice of crushed berries and swilled charcoal. I hardly think it could ever be improved upon.
Sometimes I think about the future, and what might happen, how things do develop. Technology. Science.
