He sat in a dimly lit,
large cavernous room,
his quill in his hand,
and his paper lying before him,
on a great round table.

He wrote,
filling page after page,
his writing,
what wasn’t written was as important,
if not more important than what was written.

What was not written,
contained all the thoughts,
ideas, and visions,
that came between the words,
the sentences,
and the paragraphs.

What wasn’t written,
was the soul,
of what was written.

The old one lived,
between the words,
the sentences;
his existence was lived,
between the pages of what he wrote.

And so it was written or wasn’t,
as the case maybe,
at least, the old one knew,
and perhaps one day just perhaps,
before his never-ending story ended,
he would write,
what wasn’t written for others to read.

However, for now,
he would write,
write what he saw,
write what he felt,
and he would write what he dreamed.