It started as a scribble, such small tiny lines, formless. Gradually over time matter and shape, a plan, forming from chaos and graphite, breathing, living, wondering. Passion into the design, feeling injected into the veins, emotion jolted into the creases of the face. Now it walked among backgrounds, running from something but never reaching a destination, futureless it ran to the next page, existing until the end of the brush stroke. Then silence, it lay formless, beating and bleeding in silence, striving to see past the end of the page, with no thought, no future, dead. Until by a miracle, formed again from the depths of a mind, the life, once snuffed, breathed again and continued the race that was its life, running forward to the end of the tale, rapt attention focused on...
The End.
The End.
