He was a scribbler. Not an artist or an author. He never really had any intention behind his scribbles. But he didn’t scribble out of boredom. He would think that frivolous. He scribbled because his brain couldn’t think fast enough to keep his ideas from leaking out.

Here was the scribbler, slave to his micron. The micron was quite lovely actually. It was as attached to him as he was to it. So it was only natural the micron’s ink stained her dress. He wouldn’t need the micron any longer. She can listen, thought the micron. Sort the junk from the genius better than the micron.