Word
This is one of my favorite things.
When you delete your last page and a half in Word, you are left with the mysterious blue expanse. You have seen this blue before, but seldom in so great a quantity. The sight thrills you-- how rare a pleasure is this!
Alas, you have no choice but to scroll up. You give a few clicks and then pause, attempting to scroll down, but the bottom of the blue has followed you up. You know there is no going back. Part of you wants to stay, bask in the eternal and elusive blue, but you know you must go on. So it is with a forlorn heart that you scroll the rest of the way up, trying to focus once more on the white and black pages above but not quite managing to miss the vanishing wink of a soft blue friend, waving good-bye until the next chance meeting.
When you delete your last page and a half in Word, you are left with the mysterious blue expanse. You have seen this blue before, but seldom in so great a quantity. The sight thrills you-- how rare a pleasure is this!
Alas, you have no choice but to scroll up. You give a few clicks and then pause, attempting to scroll down, but the bottom of the blue has followed you up. You know there is no going back. Part of you wants to stay, bask in the eternal and elusive blue, but you know you must go on. So it is with a forlorn heart that you scroll the rest of the way up, trying to focus once more on the white and black pages above but not quite managing to miss the vanishing wink of a soft blue friend, waving good-bye until the next chance meeting.