The pen was lying across a lined notepad.
It was the old type. Why they called a it a “fountain” pen I do not know.
I don’t want to look up the name and its origin as it may take away from the romantic notion of a pen that can be refilled at will from a bottle of ink.
Another page of fine prose, better than this, can start and the action with pen and ink will be repeated.
The continuity, the reliable habit at the mercy of the pen, is at times comforting.
This is in a time of chaos. A time nobody admits is strange. But I know it is.
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