Why I Write

The young boy slept and as he slept he dreamt. It was not one of those fantasy dreams with the dragons and the fire. It was a dream of what could be.

He could tell that although in real life he was still alive he was dead in the dream. He was dead but watching a dreamlike dinner after his time.

He was a hidden camera. The dining couple talked at a table in some city the boy had never been to.

And as the boy watched on he heard not the words but felt them and followed the conversation.

The lady was on a rant about some book. But wait. She said who wrote it: and the boy sensed his own name just as she started to describe the plot.

The boy woke up and wondered how many people would be influenced by him, all of them people he'd never meet.