The pencil would move, stop, scratch a line, drop. Pinched in between the thumb and the index finger, it would perform a graceful salto around the hand, transitioning to a fervent Irish jig on paper. The tip would go up and down with a feverish pace, unsure of where it will land next. Pause. A set of teeth biting into it in a great distress, reluctant to let go. But the time is pressing and the writing must continue. Graphite meets paper again, leaving a part of itself anywhere it goes. In this manner, it keeps on going until it runs out of either time or life.