Staring facedown at the blank pages screaming out for the writers cognitive endowments. Craving the relief that the slightest caress of his pen consigns as he transmutes his beliefs into eloquent black ink. Curing it’s vacuity, transforming it’s barrenness into a prepossessing canvas. A canvas that will soon convey it’s very own endowments to those fortuitous enough to consume them. The canvas that feeds the hungry mind of the reader, curing their craving, their vacuity. It becomes a chain reaction caused by the mind of the writer to the pen, the pen to the paper, and the paper to the reader. Each stroke of the pen infuses a thought in the readers mind, overcoming it’s blankness. It is of no importance the handwriting, magnitude, or even organization of the work. Each fragment will implant a seed in the mind of whom is in front of the page. The boon of the selfish writer, documenting in the interests of his very own intention, is the impact his writing imposes on the reader. A selfish act unjustifiably condemned as altruistically advantageous to any soul it comes in contact with. As the pen continues to nourish the paper, it waters the implanted seed and the seed then disperses it’s newborn information to the mind of the reader. As a result, the reader becomes enlightened by the work of the writer. And thus, is the chain reaction of the knowledge of the writer, generating information into the world, and finally, to the mind of the reader. The unavoidable power of the pen and the paper.