It had been stressful, the day, and ultimately he just wanted to print. The printing was the part he enjoyed the most; a certain form of make believe made slightly more real, occasionally almost in three dimensions.
Except for when the ink began to run low. Then a gate-closing panic set in, and the make believe became a fantasy against scarcity. In twenty-fifteen, all that scrolling text against a diminishing supply of yellow ink. It became, in fact, a maxim, about yellow ink. The scarcity forced him to make choices, and to be even more organized.
In twenty-eighteen, all that paleo red against the retreating, drying, receding vivid magenta.
It was stressful, but he liked that it made time indelibly visible.
