You were all too much like a silent God. Watching the people below like characters in a novel; seperate but attached in a way unfathomable to your previously virginal brain, but now you knew. You knew why you felt tethered to these children, because you were them and they were you. They all posessed you until you came to this point, overwhelmed by their control of you: a puppeteer occupied by his puppets.

Now you sit stoic, staring wide eyed through thick rimmed glasses at the blue-white glare of the computer screen, reading and reading until the words fold into the tissues of your brain. Your eyes are held to the light by invisible bonds that cut to look away. Natural light begins to make you bleed.

And now you are held in this void; fixed in point as the world passes by, too wrapped up in these tales of others. For there is a time for stories and a time for fables, but that time is not now, not all the time, yet you will never know.