I think the perfect pen name is Quill McSeagull. Especially for writing flights of fancy—and nothing has more feathers than a love poem.

I can’t write anymore. My words are paper airplanes tenuously gliding towards the dust. The wonder of the Phoenicians, which throughout the latter part of this entry I have not fully comprehended, is getting vaguer...

The great William Shakespeare said, “What’s in a name?” He also said, “Call me Billy one more time and I will stab you with this ink quill.