Robin Morrison has pursued life like a senile butterfly enthusiast, rushing off without so much as a net, always feeling he's left something behind; for example, the memory of where he came from before he emerged to mate and some day die.
He is old and unwise. His sword arm is shot, and he agrees with the authorities that there's nothing like a good blaster at your side and stomping on anything that still writhes. He calls this 'writing'.
"Writing protects me from reality," he said. "Readers protect me from my creditors.
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