I'm a writer.
This means that after a long day of work at the bank, I tear out of there like the hounds of Hades are on my heels, and jump into my motor vehicle. I gun it towards home, running as many red lights as (semi-)legally possible. I screech my car to a halt in the driveway, burst out the door, slamming it behind me, often needing to turn back and slam it again so that my interior lights don't stay on and my car battery does not die.
I take the direct path to the door, rushing over the grass and leaping to clear the prickly bush that separates our lawn from our walkway. I more or less crash into the door. I throw it open to the degree that the hinges are in peril of snapping, fumble with the lock, and manage to locate, insert, and use the correct housekey.
Finally, I kick off my shoes, dash into the kitchen, and whip out the nearest pen or pencil and any available piece of paper, napkin, book with the margins of the pages yet unfilled, etc. and commence to maniacally scrawl what lyrics, rhymes, clever phrases, plot twists, surprise endings, catchy sayings and interesting thoughts had been held and nurtured, kept flickering in and out in infancy, but still alive, resounding in their potency between my two ears, inside my hard head, within my poet's mind, JUST IN THE LAST 5 MINUTES AT THE BANK...
Yeah.
It's all in the job description.
The print is just really fine.
^ Oh, look, I just made a pun!
Yay for occupational humor.