Man struggles gamely to play his part in a play that has no script and in which he never takes direction from the director. This is not completely his fault, the director has yet to assert himself. Such a guiding void leaves man open to influence from all types of distractions and from power hungry stage managers. But the problems are minor compared to the ghosts that haunt the stage. Old actors of another age play who want to create again. These old ones lie in wait, feeding off the energy the play's emotion, growing strong. Their power, though, is not physical. They influence the natural downward spiral of self destructing event, forcing extremes and causing the end scene to explode with unnatural fury. Some prefer to push and prod the actors. With their pushes mentally guiding you. So subtle they are, you believe the thoughts your own. Others prefer to act as teachers trainers handing power to unwieldy hands and watching the power dominate the untrained user, consuming him.
The actors are numerous, the director silent, and yet the play continues.
* * * *
There are entities that have ruled this world for many eons. Shuttling in and out of the world of light, they prey upon the inhabitants of the world of light. Touching their minds, out of normal sight, these creatures feed upon the untapped energy of the human mind. There is so much for them to play with that the game never grows tiresome. Like a fly caster they are patient, careful and know how to play a line. Such a sport we have become.
* * * *
The den was dark with the blinds pulled shut against the evening sun. Around the closed door a yellow halo from the hall light broke the uniform gray of the wall. Inside the den as the day's dust settled, the Avichi watched. Having no consistent form he hung from the ceiling like a bulbed stalactite.
