All they knew was the pen and their minds. Tortured words screamed by demons into their mind released by a pen, scratching in the paper curling lines of ink: an elegant medium for a dangerous art. They wrote at a pace twice as fast as death, faster than their blood pumped. They wrote like they were running out of time, like every grain that trickled down was a lump of gold, to be used to its limit. Sleep was a rare gift they made to themselves, and immediately after they returned to their work. Scratch, scritch. A perpetual music with a tempo faster than death.