Gordon took the pen into his hand and began to create. The act of creation came naturally to him. He lived for the process; the one where he pulled thought from the centre of his mind and spilled it all over his sketch book. It was a self-filled act or so it was perceived. Who could understand that all that he wrote was for the world when all that he wrote… was about himself. In various forms and fables; in costumes and with superpowers; with swords and gruff gunslingers. All about himself. And yet it was all about the others. He wrote and wrote and wrote some more. And then, the hand of Gordon sought out his camera… and some suitable actors. The act of creation was good.