“What do you want to draw?” said the hand to the pen.
“Dunno,” said the pen. “It’s so hot. Shall I just jump in and we’ll see?”
“Sure,” said the hand. “Are you feeling anything in particular?”
“Nah,” said the pen. “Maybe we should ask the paper?”
“You mean ask— or just draw?”
“It’s polite to ask.” returned the pen.
“We never have before. We usually just start drawing and see what happens.”
“How rude!” came a voice.
“Yes, the creative urge sometimes is,” the hand stated emphatically.
“Who was that talking?” said the pen.
“I dunno,” said the hand.
“It is I,” said the paper. “Doesn’t the object of transferance have a say? I mean, I am the surface upon which you will create a new world!”
“Uhh . . . umm . . . err . . .” stammered the others. “We just, well we just don’t think about it!” they said talking over each other.
“Never mind the ink!” a small squeaky voice cried from behind the paper.
“All of a sudden,” said the hand a bit hot and frustrated, “this process has become desperately complicated and I have lost my inspiration!”
“Yes!” echoed the others.
“I think it’s just too hot to draw!” The hand gasped.
“Too hot!” another sighed.
“Yes,” they all agreed and all went away and waited for a cool breeze of inspiration to blow their way.