He had forgotten about her. He had forgotten about the milk.

His only concern was thinking. But thinking in his own way.

Thinking in a way that lost others. In a way that created worlds.

Worlds believable in every last detail. Believable to humans who needed a new reality. Believable to those of us who like the new, the different, the inspiring.

But he had no passion for them.

He could create them. It was hard, it took time. But he invariably hated them.

They weren't real.

It was the real world that let him down.

But when he did make them, he forgot. He forgot all that had happened.

He forgot the pain.

It wasn't ideal, but he was surviving.

The pain was gone now. A new world had been growing and soon would be complete.

And then the pain would return until he regained an urge to think.

If only he could love his worlds. Then he could escape reality as millions did.

But he didn't. He couldn't. He shouldn't.

The pain kept him alive.