Hair of black and eyes of subdued green, Milton blended into the crowd, a morose footnote on the liturgy of life. Hands a quiver he wrote and wrote, composition notebooks filled with musings on the meaninglessness of existence. With short, choppy phrases he hacked away at all that was bright and beautiful, all that offended his dismal disposition.

Locks of honey and amber set in delicate curls about eyes of limpid blue, Helia drifted into his path, a petal on the wind. She spoke of the lightness of being, her whole self an expression of ease and gaiety. Her words came in rivulets and tumaults, exuberant exclamations of all that makes living worth the effort and then some.

The change came not at once but over the course of a score or more pages. Clauses, once neglected, found their way onto the page. Description met nuance and wooed alliteration. Brightness wormed its way into the jet black ink.

Heart awakened and pen set afire, with glee and merriment, he turned over in his prose.