The mind generates these little bundles of joy, like some heavenly Keebler Factory. They're packed up and delivered down the arm, through the muscles, to the hand. The pen, being squeezed between the fingers, plays stork as it deposits these packets through the portal. They land on the physical medium, the startling white page, and flow forth. Flourishing, they conceptualize and grow and metamorphosis into something greater than they were before. Freed from the cage, the abstract mind in which they were held captive, these fragments of beauty bloom across a two-dimensional landscape. In the form of words, these particles of ideas spread across the page in a transferable, agreed upon medium. Other eyes can then compile and encode these into their personal mind, back to the abstract world from which they came. Ideas leave one mind as words so they can enter another. Imagine burying the pen and paper and silencing the echo of words. If we could kill the middleman, writing would not exist.