Envision a man whose avatar is originality in a town of standards and status. Where people often published short scenarios that they had written. These scenarios were written by everyone and worn as if they were identification. They resembled identity and changed about once or twice a year. (Provocative: how little they value time, and how much they value life.) This man had a certain depth; but that did not make him different in their eyes. Throughout his life he never changed his scenario, he never published one, even though the law stated you needed one before you reach the age of thirty. (They believed you gain wisdom after the passing of every year.) And, even if many scenarios were only about ten pages in length, that did not equate to a chapter of his. At the time I wrote this, he had little over one thousand pages written. He knew how people laid great importance on these scenarios, just second in value, in their eyes, to life itself. They believed it symbolized your life and valued the symbol more. He did not know of self-importance, though he knew his book, (as you would call it) had a truth and logic that was not known. What makes it different is that it is not filled with paradox, deceit, or greed; as he suggested other works were. It is hard to write fiction to perfect accuracy when you exceed ten pages. Many did not know of his work though, they assumed he was lazy and egocentric as they were. He showed what he wrote only to those that asked; and those who asked usually only finished the most recent chapter. He was thankful that they tried. His chapters were about twice the length of many full scenarios, and were difficult to finish in a town of people with better things to do (like work on their writing and force it on anyone that believes they have better things to do.) His scenario was not fiction, not like those he criticized for it.

He could not live comfortably in the town any longer. Before he had to legally publish his book, he left. He left in search of another town. The fact that he spent the rest of his life looking has no importance unless you know he valued time above anyone else in the town he disassociates himself with. He valued it along with life itself, because he thought of life as a measurement of time, and time is just as dependant on life. To signify his death, those still in the town, the ones who read the first, original chapter of his book poured gasoline on his house. They lit the house; the flames danced with ease on the rooftop on and inside of the house. Everything was danced upon, even his book: unfinished and unread.

In that town the most recent scenario was usually the most read, but his was not. He wrote the greatest, most thorough book of all time, and left before anyone read it. The only way I acquired this information is that I am the author. Do not ask what I wrote because it is now ash, and there is no recovery from ash; one of the few things my old town and I agree is true. But as you read this know that it is not only my shortest, but also my final scenario. I will never find another town, and I therefore must abide to my old town's law. I must have one published scenario; I cannot leave life short of a scenario. You are undoubtedly reading this after unfastening it from my chest; and by the time you have read this I have died from thirst. Lost, away from the town. I would rather enjoy this fate than suffer life in that town again. If you have stumbled upon my body please take it back there. Show that town this final scenario, so they know I went my life without once breaking a law, no matter how ridiculous and not enforced. Burn my body with my treasured Book, so that they may never be pieced back, but pieced together. The only remaining piece of my history is this that I leave you: My second, my final, scenario.

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