The scent of Sour cream and cheese wafts up the nostrils of Creator, the smell sickens his stomach, but he is addicted to the taste, the crunch. The sweetness of sarsaparilla deluges down his throat making his tower smell of a children’s brewery.
The screen of the computer bursts with the genius and failures of Creator.
Reams of parchment and piles of incandescent chroma quills are scattered manically with renderings of Creators madness.
Gentle depressions driving alphabetic wonder willing Creator’s thoughts into being. Drum, Drum, Drum rhythmically tapping imagination into reason
Creator grasps a parchment, who pops with joy, as it was chosen by creator to preserve his thought. A quill is frantic with elation as it is cradled with love, knowing it will preach Creators decree to all corners of the world
Tortured by a full bladder, Creator knows that if he leaves for even a moment a stroke of brilliance could be forever lost.
Creator scrutinizes his cosmos; does it need a behemoth serpent ruling like an emperor over his tundra? Should trees murmur mournfully as the sun sets in the south?
There should be rain… there should be glowing hearths in the homes of the good hearted… there should be little brothers to plague the hero, and to lead him into sacrifice.
Creator gazes upon what he has brought forth.
Bushes baring fruit, sweet as that of a first cherry, tear wrenching sunrises to burst the heart with beginnings.
Gliding, glimmering sand slips from the dunes. Dunes collapse into an ocean, cascading with the fury of the overlord within.
Creator stretches, his back cracking with a familiar chorus of sedentary aches, his mind reeling with unparalleled conceits. The seventh day approaches.
Time to journey to the World Of Warcraft.