Elizabeth felt that it wasn't enough to just conjure up these beautiful and magical things in her mind so she decided to scribble them down on the notebook that she had found underneath the bed. In her subconscious mind, a picture of a pen somewhere in the attic occurred. Indeed, there it was in one of the corners beside the ladder and adjacent to the passageway, she was right. She figured it out the first day she was locked in but, the pen being useless at the time it brought about an impression, totally brushed it off her mind.
Pen secured by the thumb, index and middle fingers, Liz began to scrawl her thoughts into reality as an encoded illusion. Letters formed into words, words into sentences. Drew a line on disgruntled concepts jotted down before considered into deep thoughts. She hadn't felt this enormously satisfied with her own imaginations in her brief length of life. What would have been an impossibly happy moment to occur overflowed in the attic, unimpeded. She was happy.
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