It stirred.

From the deepest black depths of nothingness and nowhere, it stirred.

If it had known it was now capable of reflection, it would have done so.

As it was, it simply… was.

This was new.

It looked around itself, at all the millions upon millions upon millions of words– good words bad words kind words cruel words funny words serious words poorly-written words undiscovered-genius words– and felt a commonality to them. A pulsing, a life born of the dreams of the writers who created them.

Alas for the writers, they hadn’t an inkling of what was in store.

With its very first emotion– curiosity– it prodded at the stories and pushed.