I listen to the words, and the words leave me cold. Words themselves are merely dead symbols, but when the words point to other symbols--living entities which slough off their essence from the heat emitted by the fires of my burning soul--then the words sparkle as living things. It is from this cauldron that the shapes of dragons and elves emerge, flights of fancy and fiction. Living worlds created by myself for the good of none but I myself. We are a god to the worlds of our imagination. But yet, our dreams are just dreams, and lack the vital force of essence imbued throughout the existent universe. Thus, the act of secondary creation for one becomes a blessing, for another a curse. For the one looks at his own special creation and thinks himself a god; the other, looks upon his own creation and weeps with humility for the limits of his creative force, and turns his eyes with longing, instead, to the heavens.