There she was, just a washed up showmare, sitting at a desk lit dimly by candlelight. It flickered from time to time. But she did not struggle to glare at the pages of notes on her table. “Instances of the Scribe’s writing occur semi-randomly,” one began. “It must possess some simulation of consciousness in order to record. Or how would it learn to distinguish between individuals and events? It may ‘see’ a milkshake and write ‘milkshake’, but the significance and meaning of this item must be a function of Meta.” She dragged her hoof over a few more pages. “Its writing is excellent. But it has skipped my shows. Why? Why does it pretend like I don’t exist a times? Is it malfunctioning? Possible. Though I have not dated it specifically, the mark of Gibbous Glass is impossible to miss. It is old. Very old. That it’s only begun working now could be evidence of its incompetence.” She lurched further over her desk, electing to lay her face down on the wood. Both her hat and cape were hanging up, so they did not waft or fall. “Was I afraid of those thieves? Why was I so mean to her? Does she hate me, I wonder? I did cheat. Was I supposed to cheat? Does Trixie cheat? Why did she tell Ditzy Doo the truth so easily? Not sure. How irritating.” She sat up, looking through a few lists. One was labeled “Benevolent Ball:” followed by a series of sloppily crossed-out ideas. “Too complex for the common pony,” said some. “Wrong. Doesn’t fit her.” said their opposites. She sighed, and a few pages wafted on her breath. Her horn found a fresh piece of parchment, and quill.
“What would impress Ditzy Doo?” she wrote. Surely, she had the qualities of her ideal audience.
Oh. Out the corner of her eye, she saw that the scribe was writing. Though it had plenty more to say, it elected to stop as her hooves found its covers.
Has-been.