I'm fifty. I need a pen every working day of my life. All day. Not for writing monologues about human nature, sitting at a cozy table in front of a large cafe window, a mug of whatever wrapped around it, and gazing at the street corner, tempered by rain and passers-by while my reflections dripped off my brain in my hand that squeezes ink. from the pen that produces my thoughts, embraces the hemp fibers of my Tibetan journal, handmade by monks in a secret village in a valley that can only be seen twice a year at sunset at the time of the solstice. no My pen is used outside in the dark, in bad weather, in the rain, in the snow, in the cold, in the wind, in a stationary truck, on wet pill boxes by a tired person. I know pens. i know trash I know when a pen is trash. This pen is a highly functional tool that far exceeds its price. I have more expensive and different pens, but this one is in my bag. The rest is in the box.
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