First off, my writing brush ran away, unable to bear my
endless torment. And as it walked away, it looked back as if to
say: “Fool! You’ve held me in the palm of your hand all these
years yet you’ve not a thing to show for it.” Then the inkstone
took off without a word or a parting look nor the slightest
expression of sentiment. Only the ink stayed, still waiting. After an extended wait, it threw a terrific tantrum and
drenched me from head to toe. Soaked in black ink, only my
white hair remained shimmering in the dark night.