He looked purposefully crumpled. The worn flannel shirt was a size or two too big hanging on him like a monk’s robe. He set down a coffee cup, with a tea bag crimped and it’s string dangling from the lid. Fussing with his backpack, he produced a fountain pen and a small leather bound book. He turned through it, the pages crackling, to an open page. He caressed the opposing page, acknowledging the handwriting and drawings there. He took a sip of tea, took a brief pause to look out the window, and passionately dove into writing. He stuck his tongue out a little on lip, like a five year old thinking about grade school homework. You could hear the sharp tip of the pen dance on the paper. His handwriting, which had began large, quickly grew smaller as if his thought must fit on the single page or be lost.