Alright. I guess since I'm on a roll anyway, the side border was done in the same free-writing method.

The passage on that one is as follows:

"And in the whispering of this dreadful, endless night, there comes the barest sliver of hope, a beacon, a light where I had begun to suspect that none could exist. And this beacon, so warm, so beautiful...this beacon is the very illumination, the perfect glow by which my tattered soul can see, and by which it can finally begin to mend itself."

The writing in the background of this image was just my throwing stuff on the paper to steal my own handwriting. A lot of things things were forgotten or put out of sequence as I jotted along, since I wasn't actually thinking. It reads as follows:

"And then he began to write. Except that he didn't just begin to write. He began to transcribe his soul piece by piece, facet by facet, quirk by quirk, onto the emptiness before him. As his pen flew across the paper, it took its own life. He no longer thought and wondered and planned his way down the page. He only wrote. The words, the thoughts, the inspirations that could never exist in his consious mind, took a the pen in a firm hand and guided it, unrelenting. Sometime gentle, and sometimes not, but ever unwavering. Only in this state of fantastic possession was the man whole. Only when he stopped trying to pretend that he was anything and everything that he was not could he even grasp for the barest glimpse of all that he was and wished deep within himself, in the place that propriety and methods and structure and inflexible laws of society forever chipped away at it. The place that others had driven beneath the facade long ago. So this is how it had been done. This...this unstoppable wave of words. This sculpture that built and perfected itself piece by piece. So this is how the Twains and the Hugos and the Longfellows had managed such ineffable perfection without the help of computers. Before the age of constant editing, before persistant second-guessing, before word processing made the author's life so much easier...this was inspiration. Adn here, in these few moments, the man who wanted to write could at least glimpse the illusive, obsolete beacon of raw talent."

I may have gone on, but I ran out of paper. ^^;