The Illustrated Encyclopedia of an Imaginary Universe

It’s a crime, sort of; I can’t help but feeling a slinky sort of cunning each time I peer into his head. I don’t suppose he meant it to be so, this way, and perhaps he’s more away of my ghostly, haunting presence than I would like to believe. But if he has detected me, he is quiet adept at pretending me away.

I sometimes feel guilty, I sometimes feel like a betrayer, but it has become something that I can no longer resist; it has become a routine, to peer into his head, as it were. He’s selective in his presentations, courteous, but maintaining his trademark disdain. I knew that to be caught would be as horrible as it would be fascinating, but it is a risk to which I was willing to submit.

What I find so enchanting in this odd exercise is something that confuses even me. There’s nothing even remotely interesting about him; as much as he would enlarge himself otherwise, he is a rather flat, two-dimensional character straight out of a poorly written book geared for teenagers. Perhaps here’s a history which I cannot deny that binds me to my task. Perhaps it’s the same sick mentality that pushes all to look at the remains of an auto wreck. Perhaps it isn’t important.

But I will continue to peer into his head as long as he remains a blazing fireball of detached uselessness, a lump of angry coal laid quietly down in a field of heather; as long as he allows me.