Mechanical robots of words,whose heads are stuck in the clouds of ideas ; in between piles of half read books listening to the eternal whisperings of authors.
Hands always flowing with an inky substance always smudged. Whose eyes act as spies, delving into the pasts of heroes, villains and lovers; their tales vast and lives many.
Brains scattered with lightning ideas that fizz and pop, come and go . Wake you up in the night causing the ink to leak onto the bed covers.
Whose very existence lives on the taste of paper and never ending cuts. Draining the words like Dracula then placing them back to life like Frankenstein.
Their thoughts and creativity will never die.
The magicians of life.