Some stories are just to good to be made up. Weather it happened or not is besides the point. It was so real in your mind. I am the narrator. I am the voice in your head as you read this. I am the dictator to your writing hand, the color of your daydreams, the engineer aboard your train of thought. I am the deity of consciousness.
I sit atop a tower at the very end of the earth and from this ponderous spire I can see the world. I can see your dreams. I can see your hopes, your grief, your happiness, your love... But today I see the frustration of Boris.
Boris was a yeast. He had descended from a long line of yeasts. He was something of a pedigree. Of royal blood almost. He currently resided in a tub of yoghurt thinking dark uncomplicated yeasty thoughts.