How many times has he beaten his head against this wall?

Running his weathered hand along the smooth gray vellum, Olio thinks of the many nights he has sat in his chair by the fire, squeezing bits of his soul into the vastness of the empty page. Many such a night he has pondered his charge: is it he, the sage, that exists to tell his stories, or is he simply a dream, an inspiration that has sparked to life on some other’s written page?

He looks up from the leather bound book resting in front of him, glancing around the one room that serves as his current abode. He ticks off his meager belongings on his dark stained fingers: A bed, table and chair, a clothing chest by the window, and a square piece of polished metal, hung long ago, to prevent his own self mutilation while shaving. Home sweet home.

Regarding his reflection, he mumbles, ‘Am I the fool, to put myself through this night after night? For what purpose do I strive? Does my creativity and strife cause even a ripple in the lives around me?’ His passion jumps to his eyes, adding a mischievous twinkle. The corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly. ‘You always did take yourself too seriously’, he said, the smile widening into a toothy grin.

And not being able to resist the cleverness of his sarcasm, once again’’’.

Coyote laughs.