

The PencilThe embrace was delightful, he thought. He felt loved for once, as the master's fingers enveloped him. Through his core, all sorts of genius ideas had flowed, and were given shape. To him, did the Master owe his success. Pictures, texts, maps, everything. His was the power to create everything which he desired. But he didn't. He refused to. He'd calmly wait for the Master's touch. He remembered when he was first picked up. He had felt scared and reluctant. No, not merely afraid, but terrified. And their first contact was painful, as he was forced down the sharpener. He had been a pencil all his life, or so he remembered. He stoodThe Pencil
--
wodka!
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