-- Got any idea what I'm talking about? Good luck figuring it out ;) --
He’s a dark, silent kind of guy. Just stands in the corners; he likes the shadows. I have never seen him out in broad day light; the sun must hurt his eyes. Or maybe he just prefers the dark? He sure wears a lot of it; long dark trench, black fedora, shiny black shoes. I wonder what his face looks like…I have never actually seen it. He keeps it hidden in the shadows all the time. I don’t believe I would be surprised if he just didn’t have a face.
He wouldn’t need one; it would be just a waste of space. He doesn’t see the world we live in, and he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t speak out loud; that would ruin the magic in it all. He pulls the pain, hate, and cruel sick death that I crave from dreams, memories, and thoughts. He doesn’t need to see it happen to know how. He doesn’t need to hear them talk about it to know why. He just…knows.
That used to scare me; knowing everything all the time, but I guess it’s just part of the job. He doesn’t care if he scares me or anyone else, his purpose isn’t to make me great of popular. He has only one objective: to continuously pull me to the edge, and make me stare out at what’s there. He pushes me into the darkness, and from that he calls forth light. And from that light he forms words. And those words are thoughts, feelings, actions; a story.
And that’s his job.