Perfection. It's the one thing no mortal has been known to achieve. One's looks and behaviors couldn't be matched by a machine and a human can't match the behavior in a machine. But could one achieve such goals through storytelling, the worlds in them created by thought, extending as far out as our limitations allow. "The Host was not satisfied with his imperfections, he narrated softly to himself. The worlds I can tell of don't satisfy what I want to." He was stuck in his thoughts, all his unreachable wishes and self-loathing. He wished to tell a story. He wished to tell a story like no other, to make one feel every emotion, every sense of pain, and touch the characters felt. He wanted to put the readers in the books, make them feel a sense of fiction become their reality. Though he couldn't force it, not through simple words on a paper written down. People try and wish every day to become a part of fiction.

Authors have tried over and over. Adding visuals, taking them away, using wordings, different perspectives and ways of telling the stories, but they never worked. He wanted to reach this, he felt worthless. He's narrated the world as long as he could remember, each word he uttered spoke in the third person, he saw the world differently. With his gift cam a natural urge to be better, to find something, no, create something better. "No, no, no. The Host uttered to himself in frustration. Every word I write and say is wrong. What can I do? The Host had asked himself quietly." He worked and worked. He never saw day, he never felt the presence of another human. He went insane

The host was a special Author. He was obsessed with writing the perfect story that he never could. He thought and thought of what he could do to make a better story. It was his sight, He could see reality all images in front of him stimulated his brain. His sight was hindering him, he thought that if he couldn't see reality then he could properly imagine and create fiction. He would be able to make it himself and bring it to others. His eyes, his eyes let him see. If they were gone...he would have no limit. If every story was written in his mind and never shared with the world he would be satisfied. He could by no means discover a new way to write. He couldn't he was too late into life. If he could at least no he could accomplish the perfect story he would risk anything. "The Host new what to do, he narrated to himself in excitement." He ran to the kitchen and grabbed the first aid and a knife. He rushed to the bathroom adrenalin rushing through his body.

He knew he would feel pain he knew it. He was determined to do it either way. The Host stood in the bathroom taking in his surroundings, knowing he would never see again. He opened the first aid kit and laid out gauze and bandages. He looked back at the mirror knife clenched in hand. He raised his hand steadily, no fear in his composure, and without hesitating sunk the knife into his right eye. The pain was excruciating but he didn't utter a sound, not even flinch. He yanked the knife out his head along with his eyeball. It dangled from his socket. The Host cut it out. He did the same to his left eye. Blood was oozing steadily down his face.

The feeling of the warm liquid awoke him from his trance. He was happy. He thought he could finally find a way to create the perfect story. Create a branch between reality and fiction that would drive the reader to pure insanity. They would experience there wildest dreams with the flip of a page. But he was wrong. he was imprecise and acted without proper thought. He was left laughing on the bathroom laughing from pure joy, unable to treat himself without sight. He bled and bled. He experienced the perfect story. His brain was a mess of illogical thoughts and outcomes. They were fiction, thoughts that wouldn't make sense in reality. Though he experienced the pain, emotion, and consequences of reality. He reached the perfect branch between stories and reality. He experienced pain then death. He was insane. Insanity was that path, that loophole, that one missing piece that he found too late.