You are an artist of great skill, every flick of your brush leads to imaginary things. One day, you decide to draw something—or, rather, someone that you find demeaning. Those indigo tones, hair frolicking, utmost finding purpose, eyes that can deem unworthy to the naked eye.

It was already late at night, so you decided to go to sleep. But something stopped you from doing so. Soft whispers against your earlobe, “Sleeping so soon? But you've just created me. How unfortunate, really.”