You know you have formed a fleeting attachment to this app when you suddenly begin waxing lyrical to a friend about the inner beauty of an earwig, at this point you are classed as a Prosaic Prose.er, and help is available at your nearest medical facility to ease your suffering.

The next stage in your downward spiral begins once you are fixated upon curtain patterns, extolling the virtues of hidden meanings within the flowing folds of Summer Fields Curtain Pattern #341, at this point your attachment to Prose is classed as Prose.Prosaic, and help is available at your nearest and most reputed therapist.

The third stage in your descent to madness begins once you notice your circle of friends stop calling at your house, as you have long since stopped caring about personal hygiene, and you wander your neighbourhood during the wee hours screaming "Scribbler....Scribbler". At this point help remains available, but only once you sign up for the French Foreign Legion.

The final stage of your descent into madness is achieved when you lose all interest in sleep. You become forever haunched over your iPad, eyes reddened and pupils reduced to pin pricks. This is the stage of no return. The only visitors to your house are the mailman and next doors cat. You are surrounded by Thesaurus and Dictionaries, obscure reference works by obscure authors with obscure names. You have attained the status of Scribe and have fixated yourself upon impossible one word challenges. You are now lost to Prose forever and the grand title of Prose.Prose.er is yours for the keeping. At this final stage help is still available, but you deem it unnecessary, as you can no longer see the wood for the trees.