ONCE UPON A TIME, in a writer's home, the following words were heard coming from a tabletop, where a pen and inkpot were to found: "It's amazing what can flow out of the ink of an inkpot. What will follow? What great story will come next?"

"It's truly amazing", the inkpot told the pen and the texts that were left on the tabletop. "I'm impressed by the writer's imagination, and cannot help but wonder every time this man dips his pen inside me. A drop of my ink is enough to fill half a page, which can contain all sorts of marvels. It is through me and by me that all these incredible writings come to life. All these fantastic heroes with which readers identify. All this emotion, the laughter, the vivid images of nature. Yet I know very little about nature itself."

"You're right about some things", replied the pen, "as you don't even have to think. If you did, you would clearly see that you only supply the medium. You give the ink which I place on the paper so as to form words and give life to texts. It is therefore the pen that writes, and no man would deny that".

Late that same night the writer returned home from a relaxing walk in the woods. So enchanted was he by the beautiful things he had seen, that he thought of writing them down. Nature's beauty would be his subject for the night, as he wanted to elaborate on all the colors, the shadows and various sounds that fused together to form the magnificent experience he had just been through. If God was an artist, thought the man, he would have surely been a writer. After dipping the pen in the inkpot, words started pouring out of it, describing the artistic masterpiece he had encountered that afternoon with every detail. When many hours later he ran out of ink, he took a pencil and filled in the last words: "How could there possibly be no Creator, when everything in nature is so perfectly aligned, as if an invisible conductor had orchestrated their every move".

As soon as they heard him whisper the words, both the pen and inkpot understood that they were mere tools in the hands of a creator, who could build entire worlds with only his imagination and had no real need of either. He then lay on his bed, and with the memory of his walk let his imagination run free and build palaces, and distant cities.