If I keep buying pens, I won’t have any excuses.

I escaped from the office this afternoon. My mind
was slack and my pen collection was scattered on my desk, in formations that
could have been Work on the Decayed (:||::|) in I
or Morse code from another solar system.

So I left and went to Quill. Quill is on
Legaspi Street, in Eurovillas, where the McCann office used to be. I wanted to
purchase refills for my extraordinarily skinny Lamy pen.

had this pen for years. Writing with it is like writing with a really tough
toothpick. I had the pencil version, too, but I can’t find it now, and I miss
it. I also miss writing with my old music nib, and this elbow
nib whose tips have separated from many heavy

This compulsion to buy pens
could be a substitute for actually writing anything meaningful with them.