As the Tale Closes

There was a young lad, whose life in a book, was written every day, with every choice which he took. The young boy was alone, and as he walked through the world, turning aside, he knew not what to do.

"I know," he did say, "I shall find me a man who can write in this book, and can change here my stance. Not alone any longer, but with great deeds and wonders, friends, and family, and all which twas asunder." But as he searched through the land, as hard as he looked, he did not find any who could write in his book.
"Woe is me," said the boy, his frail frame all dilute, "surely never shall I see rest, I dare compute." And as he sat on a rock, melancholy and irresolute, there happened a thing which he did not portend, and it made him jump with great joy in the end. "What is this?" he said, feeling 'round in his pocket, "I do say I've found here a pen, why my rockets." And indeed it was so, twas a pen of fine make; it had a black night-like sheen, it was a brand of top rate.
"With this pen," he said, "I might write here my story, if others may help, and give me consolatory." And with that, he sat down and began to write. And as he wrote, a man came to him there, and he helped to write down all things 'twere fair. Such a great man he was, and yet more was he so; 'twas God himself, who made the ink flow. And by that man's advice, the young boy became man, and continued to write, to read and to laugh. And at the end of his life, and as his tale was to close, he put down his pen and then he arose. He thanked the great man, for all he had done, and smiling the man held him as the ink ceased to run. And thus his book was ended.