He typed away furiously at his computer, the light from the monitor shining eerily off the white, bare walls, casting shadows in the spookiest of manners and chasing the darkness into the corners, away from his illuminated mind. The words spilled onto the page, unable to be staunched from the flood originating in the depths of imagination only he could sense. He wrote like he never would again, for if he didn’t reveal his mind now it would never be brought beyond his own fascinating world within himself. All around him he could feel the spark of creation. And it was he who channeled it all into story. Into the real world. He, a medium from the magic of the mind to the threads of reality. The walls, however simple, were speaking. The smoke from the small, ash filled fireplace whispered wise words it had gathered from many years of channeling heat for those it loved and vanquishing the logs offered to it once and for all. They screamed out to him as they were devoured, the adventure closing for them at last. The dancing flames were a spawn of a great and powerful force, and never had it reached out to a human as it did on this night. The story was winding on into the pages, slowly becoming a scene for inspiration and truth. It was already something. To someone. A shock of inspiration to become another flow of intelligent thought to complete a lost soul. The combination of those two words there and the use of that analogy was already a lung to breathe life into another being. His fingers never ceased, his train never slowed, all was dripping on the document desperately. It built, like the flames showing him the way. It grew and burned brighter with every keystroke. The words proved that not everything that ever will be is already finished. New does exist.