The fingertips were slightly numb, but he only frowned, and the pen tip fell steadily on the yellow hemp paper. He continued to write the next sentence of "worry before the world's worries." When the ink faded, he raised his hand and rubbed his sore wrist. The candlelight danced, making his shadow longer and longer, reflecting on the books piled half as high as a person behind him. Even the coarse cotton robe with two patches on his body was stained with the fragrance of ink.
