There was a job once, monotony masquerading as stability, and a dissatisfied woman who never had enough things. One of us left for greener pastures. It must have been her because I look outside and see only red and grey and glass. But none of that matters. None of it’s real. Tangible, maybe, but real?
No. I’d know if it was. I would feel it, and I don’t. What I feel is fiction. Endless opportunity, limitless potential. I live here, in the world behind the words, and I am a king, a pauper, a hero, a villain and, finally; content.