Black smudged hands and aching joints were a thing of the past. The massive machine that sat in front him, staring blankly back, with his aged expression mirrored in it’s screen, seemed to taunt him. Yes, it had been years. And, yes, many of his old works crouched in corners of the musty room, crumpled into little balls. Yet he was determined to push himself back up and mount the horse again, riding (hopefully) off into the sunset. The machine, with it’s various keys, dials, and buttons, seemed to say “Even if you did have one microbe of creativity in your ancient brain, you will never be able to conquer me!” However, unknown to the machine, he had been through nearly eighty years of strife, and he was ready to ease his burden, even if it did mean tackling modern technology. His wrinkled hand grasped the plug and inserted it into the socket, the machine sputtering whirrs and clicks of defeat. A smile grew across his face. The first battle had been won, now for the entire war. His ammo? Words.