These daffs were a gift from a thoughtful neighbour. As the yellow intensity fades to a thoughtful hue, an unusual satin texture wrinkles the once exuberant trumpeting petals and a certain delicate sheen of vibrancy past is still there in wispy paper. Too pretty to throw out, they sat for weeks on the table. Unfortunately my old nib on the fountain pen is no better than a roughed-up chicken toenail for all its scratchings, gasps and peckings. Insisting it is running dry, it will suddenly cough up copious amounts of ink on areas that aren't supposed to be dark and then choose to rough up the paper like it is searching for bugs. It has no regard, NO REGARD, for art.