Maxwell's Demon's idiot cousin was a mean cuss. Sat all day watching that busted set, day after year on end. Wrote every stupid little pixel down as a stupid one or an idiot zero, wrote all tidy with her little pencil, in the stupid little composition notebooks that we all had to keep buying her, writing with the care she'd never given anyone else. Huddled in front of that screen, that static, basking in the blue light on her pale-ass skin. Sharp as a splinter and quicker than her cousin, every zero, every one, just right, faster than you could see her write. And all to record that stupid snow from her ancient, untuned TV. Make a sane man cry with that attention.

And sactimonious as a damn monk, as if that was some necessary job, as if she was doing something worthwhile. You couldn't start a conversation, you couldn't tell her you love her, nothing. She'd just go: I'm making information.

What?

Making information. Patterns through symmettry. Reflecting the noise. Observation, not understanding. Attention not order. Hush.

Whatever.

All it was was she was mean, cold, hard, and i don't miss her.