I have always hated fiction:

Jealous and indignant maybe

Characters with character provided

Hopes and dreams consistent

Fixed futures as foundation

Framing their actions

Progressing toward their destinies

The omniscient Author[itarian]

Directing the heroes’ steps.

But I wake up suspended…

Drifting…

In a paragraph of utterances

From all different languages

Missing pages, no introduction

Just seething guilt that

Someone above is disappointed

That I am not what or where I ought be

And now the whole story is fucked.