[center][h2]A Hollow House[/h2][/center]
There is nothing to describe in the world I am going to introduce you to. There are no skies with beautiful sunrises or dreary clouds. There are no tall, lean trees swaying in the wind or dirty, yellow shrubs withering on the desert sand. Instead, this world is the absence of all of the things that make up the world you know of. Why? Because it does not exist. At least not in our realm of reality. 

Its existence lies within these words. Being constructed as each letter is added to the page like bricks. I am building a house that will always be hollow. 

You can try to fill it with your feelings, your ideas, your opinions, but in the end, all of that will be washed away and the house will become anew, ready for its next guest. You may ask, "What about you, the creator, the writer, the world-maker?" 

But even I cannot control or foresee what happens here, like God with his creation of man, because now we become observers of what once was ours. We can erase our work, elimination in attempt to seize back some of our power, but somewhere they still exist, lingering in the memories of the universe. And the universe never forgets.