The written word is dying. Pencil or pen, paper. Archives crumble to dust and disintegrate alone in the stack of old libraries. The pulse of the human touch grows faint somewhere between the tethers of black boxes and ethereal clouds. Nothing captures voice and essence like script and scribble – notes of the psyche randomly captured sound different when written. We are all writers; billions of words fly from our fingers every day, consumed mindlessly then discarded. But the question is, what are we really leaving behind? I have no need to ask that as I write each day, by hand.