I, bored, so bored, search for the light of creativity in the aisles of man’s mental labor. Finding nothing to satisfy, I realize that I must make my own; for I am—and inside of me is—the very world of beautiful lights that I seek to walk through, that can satisfy the pant of the soul and the echo of the stomach’s reproof; they are those hallways of fables and legends which are ancient as Noah’s arc yet that have not been granted the downstream flow of the blockade. Once the floodgate is reeled upwards, then, without fail, the river will empty its mouth into the realm of the living, that land which is so thirsty for the things which no eye has seen and no ear has heard, which are locked in boxes and forced into silence until the heart of the owner of each key deems it wise and necessary to unlock and release it into the world.
If the world is boring, I will create a world that is not. I will make it one worth crushing by the hand of evil and then saving by the will of one fault-filled crew of heathens who, although differing in ideas and customs and languages, find the strength of their feeble hands much stronger in unison; it will be those who require the slaying of the seekers of destruction and the salvation of a world or universe far too weak and stupid to save itself.
For though they all be thieves and murderers, if they possess the intellect and the presence of mind, how much offense heaps upon their brow as they consider that, many eons later, it would be said that they were not able to “save the day” because they were too lazy or, worse, because they were incapable of victory in the first place? No, it would be said that they succeeded so well that only their laziness allowed the evil to rise in the first place, and even if they failed in the attempt, no one would call them weak or incompetent because on their museum gravestones it would be written, “the best bad asses of their millennium.”