“Why does my pen carry on, does it have some sort of life of it’s own? Have I conditioned my hand over all these years to record each passing whim in my head, parroting my thoughts like a trained bird? Maybe so.
Perhaps my pen is a zombie, contrived of once living material mined from the earth and shaped into a writing tool. Intended as a useful slave to humanity, it has turned the tables on me, and the master’s tools have dismantled the master’s house. Living a half-life of words and doodles.
Such strange things I find myself rambling about…Zombie pens? What will I think of next, man-eating fruit cake…..?”