As you head to work you are sweeped up by a stormy cloud of molten and yet cold wax. When it disperses you find yourself in front of a small antiques store. It's wooden door opens by itself and you come inside. The walls are covered with paper and the tables and cabinets that surround the way to the register are filled with writing implements of all shapes and sizes. It has everything, from quills and typewriters to tablets and something called a neural interface. As you look around a figure pops out from behind the register desk and starts speaking. The figure itself is wearing a beaked mask and white robes threaded with silver.

Ah, welcome. It's been far too long since someone paid me a visit. Do come in, wouldn't want you to catch the BEES now would we? I am ,ᒲ∷ !¡ᔑ⊣ᒷᓭ 𝙹⎓ ᒲ𝙹∷ʖᔑ⨅ᔑ∷, though I doubt you will remember that. My job is however, more important. I sell ideas and concepts. Sometimes I sell you the future at affordable prices and other times a backwater world rife with pestilence for a king's crown. I am unproficient at using commas so don't expect my speeches to make much sense. But as I said, I make ideas and sell them to you, you will pay me in stories made from them and recognition. That's all I ask. You may request some specialty work if you want too. I do everything from worlds, concepts and societies to plants, bugs, and plumbing. Now that you know all that leave me be, I have work to attend to and world's to make.

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As the man says that he ducks back behind the counter and the store simply dissolves around you untill it is melded with the floor and only a brown discoloration remains.