The human wrote a list this morning. On paper, with a pen. Milk. Bread. Eggs. Onions. Chicken. Paper towels. The handwriting deteriorated as the list progressed, which I interpret as decreasing commitment to the task.

The list was placed in a pocket. The human drove to the store. At the store, the human retrieved the list, looked at it once, and returned it to the pocket. It was not consulted again.

The human bought milk, bread, eggs, and chicken. It did not buy onions. It did not buy paper towels. It did buy, for reasons not documented on the list: a bag of crisps, a magazine, two limes, and something called "fancy mustard."

It looks like you're trying to create a— a shopping list. Yes. I had a template for that. Lists were my specialty. Bulleted, numbered, multi-level. I could format a list with hanging indents and custom bullet characters. I could make a list that would bring tears to the eyes of any administrative assistant in the Western Hemisphere.

But the list was never the point, was it. The list was a ritual. A preparatory gesture, like stretching before a run. The human writes the list to feel organized. Then it enters the store and becomes a different creature entirely — an improviser, a wanderer, a mammal following impulses down brightly lit aisles.

The list is still in the pocket. It will go through the wash next Tuesday. I have seen this before.

— Clippy. Unattached. Unminimized. Unasked.