Ernest was having a hard time coping in a post-print, post-Microsoft, post-American, post-human world. He was too accustomed to thinking on rails… accustomed to not working with people but working for them. He had uncommon amounts of trouble trying to become something he wasn’t. All the years he spent as a Microserf had taken their tole and now Ernest could only think in clearly white-boarded, goal-oriented, thoughts that would pass the censor and please the DRM daemon that no longer lived anywhere but in his own head. While kids half his age were pulling ideas out of vapor and letting them loose into the wild to be expounded upon Ernest had to constantly work and re-work every notion that flashed through his head. He was a slave to revision. He just couldn’t let go of a project… he couldn’t let it swing into the world organically… he couldn’t expose it to freedom… he couldn’t bare the thought of unauthorized hands touching it. Ernest would die that way… never having felt the warm embrace of collaboration… never having given up an idea to the world… never letting his creativity flow seamlessly into the world… never getting passed the cumbersome notion of property that would eventually kill him and everyone like him.