A man is writing a letter to the editor, scratching his pencil against the paper. This is smart, he thinks. He taps the eraser against his tongue: a smart thesis, yes. He really is outdoing himself this time, this might be his finest letter yet.

Oh. Now he's indenting to make space for a new paragraph, another idea, another topic sentence to turn some heads.

He wonders what stunning thought might pop into his mind next. Others just don't have the capacity to think like me, he thinks, I am, after all, quite worldly.

He thinks about all of the places he's been. All over, really. Pennsylvania, New York, Thailand... Maybe he can incorporate this in the letter somewhere. But he has to retain some mystery, right, keep the reader guessing, in a way? The thesis is clear, true as ever, it's right there on the page, and he can't start muddling with it now, can he?

He does, but knows that when the editor reads this in full he'll feel the way Moses did after opening his eyes to the stone tablets. Likely. It's thickheaded to assume. Only time will tell—ah, now there's a phrase he must use somewhere.

Oh dear, he's approaching the conclusion. How quickly these letters grow up. Restate the thesis, he thinks, restate it with the quill! He snaps his pencil in half, tears a feather out from his pillow case and dips the small tip in some hot ink. What he lacks in fine points he'll make up for with bold lettering... Ah, there it is: the summary of his subpoints...