Cent et Un Mots par Jour

The pencil scratched the thin blank paper, leaving a trail of black powder. Drawing lines and arabesques, the graphite slowly escaped from the tip until nothing was left but a blunt point. The artist sighed and retrieved his sharpener. He turned the pencil with a regular pace, the sound of the wood against the sharp blade filling the quiet room, the sound of an old and cranky cricket. Shavings fell in the bright red bin, followed by a rain of dark dust. When the pencil was pointy again, the artist got back to his paper.

Claire Annovazzi