Wednesday - September 14, 2005
If I keep buying pens, I won't have any excuses.
I escaped from the office this afternoon. My mind
was slack and my pen collection was scattered on my desk, in formations that
could have been Work on the Decayed (:||::|) in I
Ching or Morse code from another solar system.
So I left and went to Quill. Quill is on Legaspi Street, in Eurovillas, where the McCann office used to be. I wanted to purchase refills for my extraordinarily skinny Lamy pen.
I've had this pen for years. Writing with it is like writing with a really tough toothpick. I had the pencil version, too, but I can't find it now, and I miss it. I also miss writing with my old music nib, and this elbow copperplate nib whose tips have separated from many heavy downstrokes.
This compulsion to buy pens could be a substitute for actually writing anything meaningful with them.
So I left and went to Quill. Quill is on Legaspi Street, in Eurovillas, where the McCann office used to be. I wanted to purchase refills for my extraordinarily skinny Lamy pen.
I've had this pen for years. Writing with it is like writing with a really tough toothpick. I had the pencil version, too, but I can't find it now, and I miss it. I also miss writing with my old music nib, and this elbow copperplate nib whose tips have separated from many heavy downstrokes.
This compulsion to buy pens could be a substitute for actually writing anything meaningful with them.