OOC Prompt: Collective Noun: Pencil of Lines
He loathed wasting paper, even the thin and woody stuff of the lined notebooks. No matter how deeply he lived in the modern age some part of him remembered that first glimpse of a book, one of so very precious few, with pages of sheepskin scraped until they were a different element entirely. No matter how carefully he inked his letters onto the page, they seemed unworthy to grace the world. Those poems he was truly proud of he copied down onto better sheets, embellishing the first letter with bated breath. These works were unworthy if the pen leaked or slipped. When he had a finished manuscript at last, delicate and artful, he would slip out past the garden. By the time he had copied the words from his original draft he had already begun to doubt them. Alone in the woods, offering prayers to Djehuty, he would lit the page and watched it burn as fiercely as the passions that had inspired him to write.