The pen is cheap. The cheapest. It is my favorite. The ink comes out. A large blob. A generous amount. Not delicate. Not fragile. Bold. The logos are gone. Worn. Battered. But it still gives everything. I love this pen. A rollerball. Uniball? Maybe.
The nice pens. They are different. They have a place. They are elegant. They make soft lines. Delicate lines. The lines are beautiful. They change. They move. They have a place. My writing, not worthy of them. My little pen is a brute. Just a brute. A plastic thing. It is running out of ink.
No reason. There is no reason. No reason to love this pen. But I do. And to love? No one needs a reason for that.
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