He wasn't a writer, never had been. Some taciturn personalities come alive when the medium changes, when some degree of seperation was introduced.

Not him.

It wasn't that he was uncommunicative, despite accusations otherwise. It was his interests were... different.

It was something he'd slowly come to realize.

West sighed, and put the pen on the paper again. The tip slipped into the small indention of a previous attempt.

It was the third sheet of paper.

"World enough, and time," he muttered, the equivalent of an Acanthus inside joke, with himself.

The pen moved.

Dear Emily,