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I often can't believe it myself, that this thing could happen. But it did, and it did to me.... The candle light flickers and dances about the room as it waits for me to finish scribing this surreal narrative so that I might put it's burning life to rest... ha, if only the candle could think it would know. I will never finish, and it will always burn. Time's swirling sandstorm has left us alone, my candle and I. The stars hang eternal in the night sky as if they are plastic ornaments strewn about a cheaply decorated Christmas party. I still haven't fully accepted it, haven't realized it, haven't known it; my damnation. I am the poet of forever, to sit here, weary and emaciated, and plot the very turn of the universe. I am allowed but one day of repose, on a bed of little more than random fragments of wool piled one on another; but such little rest is naught but salt in the open wound of my suffering. When did my hell begin? I used to be able to remember, to recall, to reiterate the vile machinations of my condemner, but I no longer can. The shards I do now recall manifest themselves as ghosts and shadows that invade my wandering mind. One thing that I still do remember is that it started, it all started, with a vision...

     The hollow clicking noise of hard shoes hitting hard floors followed Gregor as he made his pedestrian way to the room. At his arrival he mindfully donned a painters mask before entering, then pushed the door open. In the room was a table, and upon the table a rubber glove. He picked up the rubber glove, slid his hand into it, and closed the door with his newly shod hand. With his naked digits he picked up an electric drill that also lay on the table, careful not to nock over the aromatic jar of spices that he kept so the emanation of the room would remain tolerable. He squeezed once on the trigger of the drill to make sure it would work, and of course it did not. He cast his eyes annoyedly to the power outlet and saw that the drill had become disconnected. It was becoming an irritating habit of this drill to unplug itself when he was not around, though he thought to ask the drill, it would blame the cheap adapter he had stuck to the end of the cord. No matter, he would remedy the situation soon enough. And with that he bent over to plug it in... it was then he first saw it... The Light. It was coming out of the edges of the room, spreading from the corners until the entire room was seamed in blinding white luminance. There was a bright flash and Gregor was whisked away from his studio of artistic wax moldings, and into a nether-dreamworld .

     In his mind's eye he saw children laughing and playing, blowing bubbles, running toy trucks, and sucking on lollipops. He thought he saw himself there, among the children, running and playing, but he couldn't quite make out his own countenance. Then he realized he couldn't have seen himself among them, for he didn't see a lone child, a lone child prodded and chided by the others. Childhood memories started to trickle into his thoughts, and pain quickly creased his face. Suddenly the vision turned red, and the children boiled away. He was alone in blackness now.

     He awoke to the gentle caress of human touch. He felt like he was being preened, rubbed, cleansed and loved. He remembered his mother, he remembered when he was young how he would jump from his bed after she tucked him in and try to cling to her shoulders and how more often than not he succeed in only grabbing a shoulder pad. He remembered how she would feel him try to grip, and then slip off her back and how she would turn around as fast as she could to catch him, but how she was never fast enough. He remembered how she would then spend the next twenty minutes sitting by his side and making sure he was alright, making sure he was okay. He had never actually been hurt when he did this, but if he pretended he was, he remembered how his mother would stay, just a little longer. He had always loved the way her necklace hung down from her neck when she leaned over the kiss him on the forehead; and how the small golden crucifix always seemed to catch the dimming light from the moon hanging outside his window and shine it back to him with it's imbedded diamonds... Just a little bit longer, just a little bit longer.... a tear welled in his eye. The images faded and now he was fully awake, and realized that he had been in a hospital, on the receiving end of a sponge bath. The nurse was done now, and with a practiced ease packed up her scrubby, soap, and various instruments of hygiene, and proceeded to help him out of the bath. He heard her mumbling something about paint fumes, but he couldn't quite make out what. Upon a wheelchair he traveled back to his room and was helped back into bed. He closed his eyes to sleep. When he opened his eyes, he was back in the black space. He looked around, and saw nothing.

     He could see his father now, a faint vision of a man watching his television. He was watching a show about golfing, more just to pass the time than out of interest. He stared indifferently at the screen as the golfer shoved his golf tee into the ground, placed a ball on it, swung, and stepped back to watch the ball's flight. At the beckoning of his son, his father clicked the TV off, placed the remote control in its usual abode and gathered his hat and coat, while his son fetched the fishing lures and bait. He could see them at the lake now, casting their fishing lines into the lake in the carefree way known only to father and son. He remembered this now. He remembered this moment. This is when it happened. The water of the lake turned a bilious dark, and fish started appearing dead at the surface. There was a massive disturbance in the middle of the lake and it looked as if a gargantuan beast was garnering it's forces just beneath the surface of the water. Then the beast broke. An enormous and evil head pushed through the surface of the lake, it looked like an eel, but a thousand time larger, a thousand times more hideous. The head was followed by a neck, a neck that went on and on and on . It seemed like forever that the vile head plunged upward into the sky, but perhaps it was only moments. Then the head came back down, and laid to rest where his father... was... standing.

     He had stood there, stood there for minutes, hours, years... he did not know how long. He watched himself look upon the beast that had crushed his father, blankly he had looked on. It appeared as if the beast was dead. As long as he looked at it, it did not move. Around him, the world changed. The sun turned black, and the sky turned red. The trees lost their leaves, and the ground turned bare. Still he had stood. Gregor could no more bear to look upon this scene and clenched his eyes shut in pain. He was lost, what was happening? He had thought this all a dream, but was it? He was back to the black space now, nothing, anywhere, nothing, everywhere... he started thrashing about, convulsing and spasming. He felt as if he was going to break, as if his very being was being torn to peices...

     He was back in his wax shop now, as if nothing had happened. There was a sculpture there in front of him, a sculpture he did not make; but knew that he was to finish. With a bottle brush he smoothed the edges that were there, and with a putty knife, made new ones. After a time he glanced to the door... only to see that there was none. He glanced to the window, it was still there but the visage was new. Outside there was the night sky, and only the night sky. Up, down, all around, nothing but plastic stars and blankness. He looked back at his table, there was a quil there, a tablet, an ink well, the superlative candle he had just carved, and off in the corner, a bed of wool. He looked back outside... far below his window floated the world, the earth. From his vantage time stood still, the world was motionless. From within he felt the urge to write, to write the world the way he saw fit, and with that it began. With every word, every syllable, every character and space the world changed, ever so slightly. Forward, backward, the time he created for the planet was a malleable clay in his hands. He realized now what had happened , what he been done to him, and what he had to do. He wept, he wept long and sorrowfully. Great waves of depression cursed through his body, tainted his mind, and 'ere long, he stopped. Now he began to write. He was hollow now, a shell. The weight that had been placed upon him had driven out his soul and his self. He had been given the title of God, and now, he no longer existed.