Cat's cradle

Mark hummed. His fingers were hopelessly tangled up in a mass of rubbers. “All of it, I guess. Minus the technical stuff. I know how to hold a pen or pencil, y'know. Bet I could even use that fancy stuff you got over there.” Poe couldn't shake the feeling that, sooner or later, Mark would spill all the ink onto his desk. The mere thought made his blood run cold. He had to stop Mark from using the quill at all costs. “I know how to write, is what I mean. But, like,” he continued to elaborate, attempting to talk with his hands, “it's completely different from the stuff I write, and I figure, I might give it a try sometime, so if you had any tips... yeah?”