The man is stubborn. His pen is trouble. His hand is gripping his weapon of voice. He speaks not in air but on paper with the ink trumpeting loudly for all to see. They see. They laugh at him, his fight, his loss.
The man is too stubborn. He sticks to his pens. His hand grips another and another in the dance of lines and curves. He speaks in liquid, drying and smudged meanings blur. They see his tears, his failure, his inability to quit, to submit to anonymity.
The man remains stubborn. He's thrown pens and paper away to dance on the beach as the tide comes in. He traces random words and sentences of profundity and redundity in the wet sand. God's salty tears erase them as they race up and down the sand. They see his words fade and work their magic. They are in awe of him, his solution, his triumph over himself.
He exists without a reader, an audience. Left to his own madness he rises to untold of heights before crashing into unfathomable depths with equal joy. The others don't understand and continue their own inky journey across the page of life. From capitals to punctuation indicating various things they are trapped between the margins of conformity.
The man relocates to the margins they avoid. He's in another world. He is the pen, writing and talking. He is the paper, listening and absorbing.
His life ends. His work does not.
They see. They laugh at themselves, their fight, their loss.