My homunculus has a ledger. It’s a crude journal of inaccurate impressions, vague suppositions and conclusions drawn of far too little experience or fact. This book has a section for good and evil, and even another for right and wrong. The entries are all drawn in bright crayon, as they require color to gain emphasis, being otherwise of so little merit. My homunculus is quite proud of what he’s made. He even shares and compares with others, drawing and offering criticism, which he hardly likes. But what more or better could he use to gauge the world? His life is so short, and so imperfect – though he prefers to not be reminded of this fact – that he holds to what he’s got with more certitude than merit. That’s his fault, though don’t expect him to confess it. Few ever do.