The human eraser had long, thin legs and a squishy rubber head. He groomed his beard every morning but could never entirely remove the castaway crumbs of yesterday’s rubbings.

He hewed strongly to principles of Leave No Trace. It was impossible to leave no trace, but his therapist assured him it was healthy to have goals. He liked his therapist, although she was not immune to his excisions. 

No matter how diligently he scrubbed traces of the past always remained. Tiny scores and runneled reminders bore witness to what had been. For a while this concerned him. Then that stopped. 

He’d been erasing for so long he could no longer remember there ever being a white page. He could imagine one. But then he could imagine all sorts of things. 

The human eraser was incapable of writing. It was quite freeing once he accepted it.