The words have become alive, a dragon in my mind writhing from page to air through my mind one ear and out the other refracting kaleidoscoping into out of my eyes and from the stretched out quivering fingertips burning with the stones scaly moss lichen fronds and the cold warmth of knowledge has begun a battle with wisdom and time.  Always time, an overpowering real illusion to which we have willingly, uncontrollably imprisoned ourselves.  I look down, far down, the pages have turned in a a breeze from the closed windows.  Watching the story unfold, the dragon wreathed around me like smoke.  There are other people here in these stories, with dreams and lives all their own, intertwined serpents twisting through time.  Almost I had forgotten.