It found life in a sigh. It flickered, sputtered, trying to stand, moving upward, upward, becoming larger. It was a word unformed. Struggle for breath. Puff of smoke. Heartbeat. New birth. It didn't know itself, couldn't feel itself. But it was there. There in the recesses of someone’s imagination, that thing that paints pictures. The machine that reaches into the soul, pulling out pieces so deep, so real, scattering them to fate. Imagination gave it birth, formed it, spoke to it of dreams. It looked in the mirror of the mind, smiling at its reflection; still so small, still delicate and fleeting. But it was something, and it was determined to grow. To escape the prison of imagination and take action in a human world. In this mirror it changed, taking shape, becoming solid, stronger until the mind could not contain it. Then it fled into what is called life, and it lived with men. It became the force of the person it possessed; the driving power, ever expanding, always moving. Like voices in the wind, deeper than love, bigger than the sky, it grew. A master. A warrior. And like an army, it recruited others, tiny sparks, new expansions, ever building its kingdom. How the heart of its human throbbed! How it sought and worried, how it strove, succeeded, and climbed. Nothing could get in their way. Nothing could break the bond between them. They moved as one, they worked as one. This thing born in reverie. This spark a blazing fire. And it laughed into the window of what was; no longer a mirror. No longer the reflection of possibility. Imagination, its parent, lay dusty in the box of the mind, useless, overcome with one single purpose. The duty was done. The thing was set free. Free to become a glory or a downfall. Free to fight, and love, and live, and die. Free to be whatever man wanted--to move mountains, to reign victorious. Free. . .until man's frustration turned to the parent. Thoughts rose from the ashes and new things became sighs. Flickerings, flames, fighting for life. They were new, exciting, raw, real. They pushed at the core of the mind and woke imagination--the power to make man fly. A word unformed. A struggle for breath. Battling until the first thing fell and life continued in all its disappointment and pain. Once more it saw the mirror, its own soul. Laughing no longer, swallowed by other things that were growing. It sighed once, turned its back on what was. . .and the idea died.