ᏕᏥᏯᏥᎶᏍᏛ ᎤᏛᏐᏅ ᎤᏬᏢ ᏧᏬᏪᎶᏗ ᎦᏣᏄᎳ ᏕᎪᏪᎵᏍᎬ, ᎾᎥᏂᎨ ᏗᎦᎶᎩᏍᎩ ᏥᎦᏓᎷᎩᏍᎪ ᎤᏣᎴᏛ ᎠᏫᏒ ᏣᏓᏪᎳᎩᏍᎪ ᏙᎴᏛ ᎦᏓᏁᎯ ᎬᏗ, ᎤᏁᎦ ᎤᏍᏘᏰᏅ ᏃᎴ ᎠᏄᎴᎲ ᎦᏃᎯᎵᏙᎲ, ᏗᎬᏂᎨ ᎢᏧᎵᏍᏔᏅ ᏓᏴᏈᏛ ᏫᏚᏓᎨᎬ ᎦᏐᎯ ᎣᎭᏁ, ᎧᏁᏍᎦ ᎦᏗᏍᎬ ᎢᎬᏓ.
I pictured the old grey man sitting at his desk scribbling as frantic as a farmer beating out a wheat-field fire with a wet tow sack, shedding strands of white hair in a momentous backlit explosion from his nimbus of beard and coiffure, tossing the dense blackened pages over his shoulder into a pile of paper as great and conical as a haystack.