You played with the strings of time with the grace of your fingers dancing with a pen. The pages come to life as with each stroke, ink is poured in such a way that the words became a piece of art. 

One could feel the book breathing out the dust of the old as it is written back into the land of the living. 

You sat back as you watched stories unfold like shadows of non-existing people infront of your eyes. The eternity of time ceased in a world like this, as you manipulated the sole meaning of what it could do within your pages. 

Everything seemed to become ageless. People…words….stories….books. Never withering into a senseless and forgotten past. They moved forward in time, unchanged. Unbothered. 

As pages gave in to the curse of age, and books became ashes, words remained still, traveling from books to minds, from minds to lips, from lips to mind again, and from mind back into the pages of a book, through a faithful arm that never seems to forget the magic of fingers, pen, and ink. 

All existed in defiance of time, and the prison it carried along with it.