I glide through the sky on a cable at a ski resort or through the waters in Italy.

Web, hair or fishing line. Whichever one, it takes time to sort it out

A river of thoughts flows from its tip, leaving trails of tales on parchment seas. Keeper of records and tales untold, its journey immortalizes every stroke.

I open without a handle, I close without a sound. I guard a glassy window, Where light and dreams are found.

A driver that will refuse the unthreaded. Brad, Penny, and Mason will not be abetted. It has nothing against these types. It's just not a battle that it likes to fight.