I'm missing the game because of a pen. Not that I'm a Boston fan. Not because I have fallen out of love with Dwight Howard. It's because I am puzzled, pleased and perfectly satisfied with a pen priced at $30. Look at it.
I am seldom at a loss for words. Except for now. I am impressed. I-m-p-r-e-s-s-e-d spells speechless. I don't know why I am in like with this pen. I never wanted a resin body. But I like it. Why couldn't I be content with the pens I have? I just don't know . . . Seems like the moment I wrote the very last letter, something whispered inside my head, "With this paper, I thee wed."
And someone asked, "Do you, dear Limner, take this pen . . . ?"
Just in case they wouldn't ask again, I hurried and said, "Oh! I do-I do-I do."
It fits as if tailored for my hand. The nib glides like an eagle on high. It's perfect synergy makes me sigh. Ink practically floats atop inexpensive paper. I can only imagine what it will do on the really good stuff. Makes me lick my lips!
The nib is perfectly pointed. I scribbled a quick practice piece, and I'm poised to continue.
There's absolutely nothing superfluous or persnickety about it. It's perfectly personable. Hmm. Personable? A bit much, huh?
It performs like a dream. So why do I want to scream? It's a writing dream!
'Cause I've paid much more for pens that have performed less. And gotten away with it.
Must I lament over the beauty, craft, and perfection of my new LAMY pen? Naturally not! You think there's something wrong with me? No sense screaming over perfectly swell written ink, huh? No sense in being speechless in suburbia either, right? So, what'll I do?
Why, I'll simply write on!
P.S. Why not try one on for size? That's L to the AMY.