Six year old Camel Royal Blue Ink.
One once-black Pierre Cardin fountain ink pen.
The pen glides over the page. As smooth as before? Smoother? I can't tell. It fits in my hand like it always has, just so. Perfect. I once tried to find another one like it. I looked in seven or eight different and sufficiently large stationery stores looking for one that remotely equals this one. Nothing. Zilch. Zippo.
Wow. Why the hell did I, or for that matter, anyone, ever stop writing with this? I can see why I kept it so safely.
Damn I wish I lived in the seventeenth century. They wrote like this all the time! And they got to write on parchment, too...
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