Burned, my ashes are spread throughout the words that mold characters. In result of this, I feel what is written; my heart bleeds for humanoid fiction. I shed the tears I write on their faces, I smell the blood I paint on their skin, I feel the anger of their words I type. My soul is restless, as is theirs. We are, together, endlessly flipped through and reread-repeated life. Though pieces of me are ageless, I am not stuck like clockwork beneath ice. I am picked apart until there is nothing but flesh and bones: a mindless organism. It follows time, though its foundation is scattered between what it has created in ink.

I am what is written.

I am what is real.

I am both the hand that holds the pen, and the story it conducts.