My finely encased fountain pen

Lying dormant for years, my fountain pen has lost
its ability to inspire me to transcend all the rubicons
of corporeality. I used to believe that, once baptised
with iron gall ink, I would never experience original
sin stepping on my toes, but hardly being able to read
lips, I left that silent abbey to become yet another great
amateur of finely encased writing implements.

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