I clutched it in my silken hand, the teal ink dripping blood-like down.

If I was going tomorrow, there would be no time else to hand her my beloved fountain-pen.

The same pen, the same cartirdge, had become my soul, publishing my imagination for the first time.

As the pages flicked from the library shelf, thier fantasised brains never kept to themselves.

I always had kept reality at bay, from my head, down my pen, to the notes on my page.

When I passed it to her, a smile flickered over her blush-pink lips, spreading like butter over her cerise cheeks.

Her chestnut eyes lit up, like the glow in her own world.

Straight away, she pulled out her notebook and wrote unique ideas down.

From that day on she never was in reality at all, an author was born.

The shops filled with her inspiration, children got excited at the sight of her name.

As I gazed at her pen her grin became contagious, I knew our love was shared in two ways.

Although her heart still remained in one loving piece.

I was glad that I gave her the route of my ambition, now she knows that I always believe in her.

Pegasus's, dragons, parallel universes, dreams, mermaids, flying cars, walking trees, following a rabbit down a hole; the future.

"The reserve of modern assertions is sometimes pushed to extremes, in which the fear of being contradicted leads the writer to strip himself of almost all sense and meaning." Sir Winston Churchill.