I can never soothe him, I'm not the one he adores. He adores the paper, not the pencil. I want so desperately to be placed in his hand once more, for my fine tip to graze against the paper, but he's too upset. Paper taunts him, she does it on purpose. She knows that it kills him on the inside that he has nothing to say, write, think. I hate paper, she gets all the credit. Am I not the one that has to be shoved into an abyss of swirling blades for him? Am I not the one that has slowly dwindle to nothing but a nub with an eraser. He'll soon be rid of me, but paper? She'll be filled with his beautiful and eloquent words that I wrote. Without me, he would love nothing. I am his translator, I take his mind and I put it on paper. I may break, but I am strong. If he makes mistakes I can easily remove them. All this, and still paper gets all of the credit, how is that fair? Why can't he love me?! Sometimes...I wish I could break myself, then he would never write again...