The thin old man sat hunched over the small table, a lone candle barely pushing back the darkness. His sharp quill scratched deftly, scribbling with the fever of discovery, desperately jotting down the thoughts before they became lost like Atlantis.
He could not stop, could not pause, could not rest even for a moment. For he was recording a truth more rare and powerful than honesty, a truth not inherently fair nor noble nor decent, but true all the same.
The truest of all truths - the truth of Man - that truth that lies beneath all facade and pretense, barely glimpsed by even the sharpest senses. Yet always there, unwaveringly present and unfailingly real.
This, he knew, was the key to understanding everything! The world, the universe, even God himself! And it was finally within his grasp, finally recorded for all to know and share and learn!
It flooded from his hand and spilled onto the paper faster than he could even comprehend. His eyes blurred, his hand ached and his forearm throbbed. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he pushed onward. His pulse raced and the thumping in his chest grew.
He could not see the words but knew they were there, flowing true onto the pages. His chest pounded and his lungs gasped for air. But still he kept on writing, writing as the candle fluttered, writing as darkness slowly closed in around him.
They found him dead, slumped face-down and smiling on the table in a pile of red-smeared paper, his quill still gripped in his stiff hand, dripping red.