They creak and scream, grinding bone on bone. In misery because of failure, they try, try, try. Like an oil pump that creaks and screams from grinding but, not bone on bone. The rusted gears, turning in sequence with each other, and warped axles, spinning out of balance. The fingers only bend, half the distance they used too.
Half is better than none.
They don't even have to bend at all. They could stay straight, so every time I jam them on the ground they don't give till they break. But I can't make a point anymore, for the pencil is my sword. I write my opinion on paper with it. However my fingers don't curl anymore.