The clacking of the typewriter keys resounded in the room, even as words started filling up the empty sheet of paper rolled in.
His words brought to life the lush forests where he wandered as a child, the crystal clear stream he drank from and the pine needles forming a soft bed for his nap. Of his village, his people, his family and his only love.
He wrote stories people waited to read. Using a paintbrush that he could no longer use lodged in his mouth to help him type, in the absence of hands that could no longer paint.