“There was something about the texture of the Moleskine notebook. The black cover with elastic strap made whatever he wrote feel more solid in his hands, the feeling damn near glorious when he used the nub of a pencil he stole from the golf course. This was real writing to him- paper and graphite and lines drawn through phrases he deemed not clever enough. This was how novels began and how the brilliant authors he admired documented their brilliance, clad in brown clothes and leaving sketches of birds amongst their truths. Surely, there was magic in this small black tome…
So he flipped open the cover, creasing it to hasten the worn appearance that would make even the most flippant passing thought deeper by it’s recording. He smoothed the page, marveling at the crescent shape it was adopting. The odd bulk in his back pocket for the past few days paid off- his careful carelessness had even provided dog-ears for a few lucky pages.
He tapped the butt of the nub against the paper, preparing to scribe the answers to life’s mysteries… and then realized that the only thing he truly knew was that he had a really neat notebook.”