Mort wasn't entirely sure whether Luke wanted to have this conversation or not. Then again, Mort had been sitting here, minding his own business, and Luke had joined him. Mort took comfort in the fact that, if Luke found him boring, he always had the freedom to leave.
Mort let Luke soldier on, listening patiently as fingers reshaped the guns into their original selves. When Mort had been around ten, he'd had this friend -- Sarah, blonde hair and covered in freckles -- and she'd stuttered. She'd hated it if he provided her words for her, and he'd found out that she stuttered a lot less if he didn't interrupt her. It was a habit that had stuck: Mort rarely filled in the blanks for others.
Mort resisted the urge to suggest a diary to look, thinking that humor might not be particularly appreciated at this point. "Aren't all novels basically novels of thoughts? Though if you forego on plot and stuff, you might end up being very... modernist. Woolf, T.S. Elliot. Pretty stuff, but not very accessible. Or, well, maybe I'm thinkin' too abstractly -- maybe you mean like a blog or something? Who would you write it for?"