The Author

The Author drifts through the void. Universes flow forth from her pen, stars and dust, planets and nebulae, the minutiae of life, whole worlds' worth of fauna and flora, holy words made life, whose only audience is her mind. Their only purpose? Her amusement.

She cares little for what they mean, rather focusing on how they sound: bombastic words like 'sepulcher' or 'aggrandize', who announce their presence like gunfire and burrow their way deep into the soul; penitent ones like 'pustule' or 'bulbous' who prostrate themselves before her, desperately apologetic for their own definition; long ones such as 'onomatopoeically' who wrap themselves around her sentences, asserting control on their meaning, diverting them like a dam would a flood; short ones that dance, like 'buzz' and 'zip', overeager puppies nipping at the heels of her prose.

Yes she loves them all, watches them flourish into minds of their own, into consciousness that quest and reach for her in the dark. Consciousnesses that learn to create, a hollow response to her repository of wonders. And yet she, trapped in the darkness, able to birth anything she can imagine, can only watch as they cry out, knowing they cry for her. She remains aloft, unable to comprehend their need for meaning, unable to even understand the creatures who crave such a thing.

Of what import is meaning to one who floats alone in darkness?