"I can't write with a computer, it doesn't work," she insisted, throwing her hands forward, stalking the living room, nimbly stepping over her debris. "Some people can – mindless little drones, soul-sucking automatons who merely reproduce an assembly line of shiftless crap! – and some people can't. I am one of those. Look!" she whirled around, coat snapping against her legs to stand firmly planted, an aggressive rock. "How can you not write using pen and paper? Okay, I'll grant you a pencil, mechanical, blah, blah, blah, whatever, but know that those things are cheaply made and that which comes from them are cheaply wrought." She fidgeted, squeamish on the subject, twisting her hands and body into appropriate gestures as she spoke. "They're so – light, no substance, no shape, and they smear and dull like the campaigner's reputation. A little squeaking of the eraser and NOTHING! You've got shavings, dull little shavings.

"Now a pen. Oh," she rolled her eyes back, ecstatic. "The tool of the GODS. So permanent, so malleable, a different personality in every brand, every one. It's beautiful, so utterly beautiful." She smiled radiance down on her floor, one particular brand, a cheap fifty pack of brightly colored black pens exploded all about. In fists and bunches numbering close to two hundred their greens, blues, pinks, reds, and oranges jumped out at her as her fingers twitched at them, begging to hold even one. Collapsing gracefully on the floor, she extended herself towards a small group, fingering one lovingly.

"Ah, my precious, my beauty, my darling, my savior, without you my life would be the stomach-churning madness of the current literate world. How I love you, how I pine for you when you're not around. Mm." She closed bright blue eyes, a wide grin stretching her cheeks. "Delicious.

"And yet some bastard would deny you your sacred craft?" Suddenly on her feet, clutching the pen in a fist, shaking it heavenward, she was spitting fire, trembling in rage. "You've been bastardized into a computer and some sinner would DARE call you faulty? May their flesh burn, their hands rot, what little talent they possess leave them. I curse all profaners! Never, my dear, will you see me love your subdivision, that which I must use after you have guided me to perfection merely to let your works loose to the masses, better than yourself! Never, I say, and strike this floor sharp to sound my resolution!"

Three times she pounded the floor, three times the door was pounded.

"Who disturbs our peace?"

"Élan, shut it! I can hear you four lots over! It's nearly five!"

"Close your ears!" Turning, she pressed the pen against her cheek, rubbing its length against her, feeling its simple beauty. "Listen not to their harsh words, dear sweet one, it is only you I care about." Eyes closed, head tilted, a rapturous expression on her face, she stood in her empty living room amid her works, many a raging conversation enacting itself in her head.