There is a man without eyes who writes stories. He writes in a stilt house over which swallows fly, snatching  insects. The swallows do not care about the stories playing out beneath them. The swallows do not care about the words that you, dear reader, now write. They do not know that their relentless flight depends on you continuing to write this story long after its end. They do not know this. If you stop, they will come crashing to an earth that no longer exists. (I am free now.) Will you continue? (Do not worry.)  Can you? (I have found Zamilon.) Your time to decide is growing short...