Leo 11. A man using both hands is writing several stories simultaneously.
The eight pens tied to his fingers wave like branches, and even though the air is still in the bedroom where he lays, it is as if a breeze were moving his hands over the pages he fills with words, pens scraping against paper, like wind moving branches against a dark window, plots and descriptions and dialogues unwinding onto the page like balls of thread dropped out of nowhere.
Who is writing? he wonders, but only occasionally, for he’s more entranced with the stories and visions themselves, as they find their way onto the pages, taking on bodies of ink, drying in the candlelight, page after page turning and filling with fresh words, tarnishing ever so slightly, softening to a silvery sheen at their first exposure to air.