To say the universe is full of intrigue is a lie.
A mass expansion of nothing where baron planets float, eternally.
There is one thing that is of at least some importance, the life. Not many planets are able to sustain life, some are barely worth existance at all.
But this world, this world is a feast. Full of stories and song.
Approximately six billion people cling to this tiny rock, each one with a story to tell, a story to feast upon.
I am the eater, the consumer of what could be. I feed on posibilities. Right now a banquet of six million awaits.
With the first breath three billion fall, they taste so good, full of love and life and pain and death.
I inhale again and two billion fall, there stories mine.
I am about to move to desert when he arrives.
My brother, the writer says that the human race are his most important work, and I will be forbidden to feast on them.
I swipe him with my great talons, in the fight that ensues ends in injury.
My blood falls to form a place of solitude, The Library.