It makes me smile when I watch them sign off on their work with unpracticed print that can turn out completely differently from document to document. A scrawl that’s not yet set or fully formed. It’s a lot like those doing the signing.
And the time they spend on the damn things – I’d be ecstatic if they put that kind of extended concentration into the work they were handing in as well as just the front sheet.
But I jest (a bit).
If anything, I’m more than a little jealous. The signature I had when I was their age doesn’t exist anymore and I miss it. It used to be framed by graceful swirls and elaborate flourishes. It danced.
I look at what it has become now and it’s like an engine stripped to the essentials – paired down to practically nothing from overuse. Two flashes of an ink-stained…
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