There should be an unearthly machine that one could wear and attach to the skin, whose sole function is to automatically record every little great thought or idea conjured up its wearer’s mind. And although each of these machines was calibrated by high-quality content engineers to differentiate between the sublime and the mediocre, and by language engineers so that the captured memoirs are succinct and eloquent, it would still have a manual override function that allowed a record to be made every time its wearer determinedly flourished a phantom digit. And like all great and useful devices it would be Universal Mass Storage compliant, meaning it could plug straight into any terminal and be recognised instantly on any platform. Every evening one could download a transcript of the great bits of one’s day, conveniently transcribed in one’s first language (i.e. the one you dream in), fire it up in one’s favourite text editor and find whole sentences ready to be copied, pasted and published.

This is the future of publishing. This is the way it will be one day, but till then one must figure out the correct words to use in the correct order because one is not as efficient as those highly paid engineers.