And so, the pen moves across the page and we find relief... From what, exactly?  Poorish food and the dull slog of time, from tedium and gray sheets, numbers that never quite add up and the incessant humm? And so, the pen moves across the page, a kind of salvation--not the kind of being saved where one lies back sodden in the boat, breathing hard and dripping--but a kind of reaching toward that w…