I sit in a room with no windows

yet I am bathed in a glow

It is not sunlight or moonlight

not even the candescence of a bulb

Eerily, I am illuminated

I open my Book of Faces

I find no Friends

I listen to the call

of the omnipresent Blue Bird

though I do not speak it's language

Conversations abound

yet no lips are moving

The madness of the solitary author

settling in for the night

in a glow holding no warmth

No one to speak to

but to me words are spoken

No eyes no ears no sound

yet still conversations abound

Capture them I must, for it is my calling

Entire worlds kneel upon my command

Every man begging me to give him voice

Even God in this place must do my bidding

How is it then, that the only joy I take now

is in the whimsy of Comic Sans?