Logos was the most prolific writer in Armen. Every morning, the townspeople would crowd around his door. His daughter Oss opened the door slightly to lazily toss out his latest work of fantasy. His story was always written on the same crisp white paper. On May the twenty-sixth, the local authority came to see Logos.
Oss slid out of the back door.
“Mister, you are being taken under arrest.”
“Arrested. I don’t understand. I’ve been sick and unable to write for months. What do you think I wrote about?” Logos whimpered.
“I would never do such a thing.”