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masking the darkness alone with no desire of human company. simply strike the spark of managable light to open the pathway between a cover, the way marked with pale stairs and winding words undaunted. the pretty flow of whimsical metaphores glide from the tip of a creationist's pen, to control the heroes like some puppet master; marry them off, send them into battle, slaughter them all like a merciless god. or stand by and watch as the silver tongued sorcerer captains a crew of bloodlusting pirates, raiding an innocent town of all its perfection; assassinate a unworthy king and place the blade in the hand of his wife; hatch a forbidden dragon to rebel against harsh tyranny; or just sit back and read, like a ghost of your former self. for the battle is not yours, the town is not yours, you are just a mortal, uncapable of magic, untouched by any special form, you are not the chosen one, there is no chosen one. because life is not special, it once was, but the rationality of corperate humanity cannot explain it scientifically, therefore, in thier steel plated world, it cannot exist beyond paper and ink. condeming us all to a planet with no unique signature, every grass blade green, every sky blue, and every original thought stolen by generations of humanity's robots.