The writers pen moved across the page, like the paintbrush of an artist. All outside noise became irrelevant. Only the scratching of the pen on the paper became important. The writer wrote words of decades past intertwining them with memories of yesterday. They sunk into a world that was being modelled with their very hands. Time went by but the writer never faltered. They wrote like it was second nature. Poring feelings and memories into the words. They laid down the pen and looked back over the words they had written. It was like a recipe of words and they had just made the perfect chocolate cake.