The essayist took up her pen, drawing a line across the world and blotting the ocean with ink, staining its surface and corrupting its ideas. The world was soon swallowed in darkness, all things bleeding and gnawing at themselves as they were washed away in furls and leaves of pages blown around in the wake of the staining tempest.

      When all was said and done, the essayist stood above a swirling ocean of words and ideas, the ink corrupting them to their literal Truth, undoing the myth that had caged them all that time. The world was laid to Rest, and a new story, an illustrious canvas, with accompanying properties, was waiting to hatch from its shell, refusing to die without being born.

      But before the new story could be led by the hand, its possibility collapsed by the unshaking observation of a poking, prying, prodding reader, the essayist knew that revisions were in order. Summoning all her will and reaching her hand high enough to pierce the heavens, she plunged her hand deep into the murky waters of story that she had gestated and reached deep, deeper, yet deeper. When her hand finally came up from the surface, gasping for air and having seen both Heaven and Hell as One, it held something foul, something pungent.

      A collection of words and concepts were in the grasp of the essayist, dredged from the lowest layers of those abyssal appendices. One was a name: "Jeff Kent." Another, a place, a den harbinging repulsive doom, "Fat Shack." The third and final of these concepts was a mysterious role, a position of high honor, "Grand Dad."

      With the dissolution of these concepts, the world was finally ready to be born. The essayist held the unborn in her hands, lifting up the stars above and below in an accretion disk of thoughts and ideas, fission and fusion in one, an infinitely dense world of everything but three.

      But of course, an author cannot live in its story. The essayist could not join the reams of paper that made up her creation, nor could she fall into it, as some authors were wont to do. And so, in one last selfish act, the essayist ensured no one could replace her. All mothers, progenitor to creation in the most literal sense, would not exist in her new world, not merely destroyed but never existing at all, a gap in the world, a lacuna of whitespace.

      And so, the essayist bid adieu to the universe beyond herself that she held swirling in her hands, and let it be born.