Sitting at a dark table, a man sits pondering the actions of another character or the plot of his next work. As the keys on the writing device sing the continuation of another work of a place that never was about characters that would never exist outside of his own mind, he smiles.
Was he crazy? Maybe.
Was he hopeless? Completely.
What did he hope to accomplish? If you asked him, he will simply point to the stories flying around him, smile madly, and say...
"They need to be told."