The job that he needed to do was more important than one might think. It was a not a task to a king or a saint, but to a very dear friend. He was doing it in his honour, a friend he had recently lost for unknown reasons.

As he wrote carefully on, thinking about who he was writing about and what it meant. Was he writing about a friend, or just polishing him to make him look good? It was something he made sure he wasn't doing. He was going to write about his friend and who he was.

thoughtfully, he kept on the hard work that would always bring joy to him. Like a painter painting, or a musician making music. He just loved his work, the feeling of the parchment on his skin, and the freedom of being able to go anywhere in any time. With his friend in mind, he wrote on.