My job is to orchestrate the rapid on-and-off of millions of tiny little switches.
I am the wizard, the spell master, the weaver of webs.
I make worlds from pure thought, and as my worlds collide with yours, your worlds are changed, and so are mine.
My worlds are contained in little black boxes, boxes that I will never actually see.
They are not lost, these boxes full of switches, but I do not know where they are, and I never will.
For hours I sit in silence, staring at the object before me; an artificial glass that glows with the light of yesterday’s sun.
Arcane symbols march across the glass, just below its surface. They come and going at my whim.
And as I work, I remain quite still, still but for the endless dance of my fingers on yet more switches.
And then, all at once, the stillness is broken.
I curse; I wring my hands in frustration.
And one of my fellows intones the spell to end all spells:
“Have you tried switching it all off and then back on again?”
Yes, indeed; yet more switches.