How ironic! You climb up and I remain on the same page, where you stepped on each letter without remorse, poor pencil with a fine, broken tip, everyone falls except that pen that you discard and make worthless. And they applaud you like the hero of the paper, unaware that you tore out pages without reading. I'm still here, between crossed-out lines and sincere ink, remaking my story... even if it hurts. And you find refuge in a different notebook, happy as a worm in its apple, the pencil so weak with a bad brand, lets itself be carried away by other pencils stained by the same ink. They think they're art, but they're just scribbles, cheap copies of a forgotten line. I was a sketch, ink, and sincere design, but to blind eyes, art hurts first. There's no doubt the pen had flaws, always sincere and direct even when it hurts, you preferred to be so cheap, that you let go of the nib dancing as you please. Today I keep my letters in the fire of new ink, not for you to read... but for you to fear. Because a broken pen that has learned to hurt, is the same one that will one day be reborn. The End.