Justin

16

The pen scratches its way carefully across the page in precise marks, writing a picture of illustrious beauty in sharp grays and whites. And a host of greens and earthy browns climb from the graphite marks, and grow, like the intertwining grove of a child-like romantic. The buds blossom in flashes of color. Emerald greens, ruby reds, and a myriad of minerals color a landscape as precious as a diamond.

The pen scratches its way carefully across the page in precise marks, writing a nature of compassion and harmony. Wildlife is born into the warm and inviting forest, and frolic in perfect sincerity. Deer dine on the dew-ladened carpet. Hares rush through the underbrush, playing a never-ending game that only a rabbit could understand. A great variety of birds flash in varying colors through the trees, singing a song of intricate harmonies, which rises in elegant crescendos, ascend in heart-stopping fortes, and is supplemented by the deep melodies of toads.

The pen scratches its way carefully across the page in precise marks, painting subtle sagacity. Men stumble upon the grove, men with minds set on mastering and subjugating the place under rule of axe and gun. But a wily intelligence overpowers their conscience as soon as they enter the grove, and, confused, they find something… an ethereal fox that leads the the lord and his liegemen a dance away from the grove till mid-afternoon, until the artful Reynard disappears in a shower of silverish greys. The hunters lose themselves in a boundless wit too great for them to fathom.

The pen scratches its way carefully across the page in precise marks, and the masterpiece takes shape in radiant beauty, charm, and wit. Let us step back for a second, and admire the shape of the painting from a distance. The shape is a face, a face that smiles kindly back at us. But there is something missing… something indescribable. I guess that someone like you cannot be described by that pen scratching its way carefully across the page.