I think we all remember reading our first novel. Be it My Pet Goat or the Count of Monte Cristo. With every page immersing us ever deeper into the fictional world where our imagination is the only master, allowing us to cater to a catwalk of images; events, characters and locations ceaselessly emerging from the fog. Inevitably ruining any other adaptation of this universe that has become our own. But that's another story entirely.

            Who hasn't, at one point or another, wished to be one of these treasured heroes of ink and quill. Isn't it precisely this identification that incites our interest with the many protagonists with which we find ourselves confronted? We avidly devour their description, searching disparagingly for any shared or similar traits. All the while wondering what choice of prose the author would have made to describe you, had the two of you met.

            Would you be his principal or merely a secondary character in his tale of want and woe? Would you have been his muse? What aspects would shape the silhouette, rendering this inken entity you? Would it be the nobility of your features, an air of aloof mystery, or the glint of deeply seated loathing in your gaze?

            It comes down in a way to the wishful fancy of mastering telepathy, inherent to the omniscient being, enabling you to harness the opinion and judgment of others. Or could it be considerably more primal than all that? Could it not be our basic impulse to leave something behind, to grasp at immortality? Some have children; others write books, paint masterpieces or sing themselves into timelessness through song.

            As the saying goes "When a writer falls in love with you, you become immortal"

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