And the light fades from his eyes as the story draws on past the ending. Like a picture of a road leading on into the horizon with every streetlamp and milepost growing smaller, drawing closer, the narrative becomes cramped and mean even as the world around it grows. And the storyteller is sweating, his voice rising to an hysterical pitch. He’s talking faster now, and his words have no meaning.
“If I walked down this road, if it were real, It would take me somewhere, and that distant point would unravel and expand into a new world, but it’s a painting, flat canvas, colorful oilsāclever, well done, artful, but unreal.”
But the books are being published, and the buyers buy. The words are dead to me; I turn the pages listlessly. Somewhere, the story ended, and we have, most unfortunate of readers, asked for more.
Tale Told 