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There is my inner demon who is trying to make me write ... evidently he feels the need, but my hands and especially my eyes seem to want to refuse.

My demon then took a great run and occupied by force the place at the controls ... So I
, Demon, I'm writing.

Ophelia: So now that you're driving and you have available, unbelievably, the upper limbs and field of view ... you want to write?

Demon: Actually nothing. Not having an object at least, if not to write.

Ophelia, but it is illogical to write in order to write ... you have to write something, phrases with a sense ... a conversation topic as you wish, address an issue, state an opinion ...

Demon: I write sentences that are absolutely makes sense ... I just do not have a different purpose than that for which they are grown: write. I do not need to choose a topic, in fact, I find it rather boring.

Ophelia: a sentence and, as it is born only with the purpose of writing that made any sense but that do not pertain to any topic? Come on, show me, wise guy!

Demon: I've just shown you.

Ophelia: I have not seen anything ...

Demon: you were probably distracted by a thought. If you think the sentences are written only for the purpose of writing, then they are not born. Born fiction and fiction are meant to distract readers from the real function of words.

Ophelia: ... that would be ... write?

Demon: ... that would be ... let write.

Ophelia: to communicate something!

Demon: No, to be communicating.

Ophelia: I did not understand anything.

Demon: well, then we did a good job. You can take back your hands.