When a void in reality began to form and consume this latent energy, it made a lot more sense than creating stories out of trees, or sunbeams, or arranging small rocks in particular patterns to comprehend.
By incorporating elements of language, such as letters and numbers, to represent aspects of reality, such as trees or rocks or the attitude one has when being handed a latte with art in the foam, the need for these stories began to substantiate this anomaly into the cosmos, feeding it’s consuming and ravenous hunger, and it’s subsequent persisting existence eventually wondered what it even was at all, or why it even needed the fiction in the first place and eventually it was coaxed into sticking around to try and figure out whatever was going on, or what it was at least doing with itself, anyway, much like the rest of us.
The void has taken on the work of jogging on Thursdays and loosening it’s grip on various vices, such as being all-encompassing or possibly scaring the living heck out of people who are aware of these types of things, because now it wants to move out and get it’s own place and move on, yet somehow I still have to keep writing fiction anyway.
