A man existed named Michael Shelley. He was quiet and unassuming and kind, and as many men do, he found that his life became defined in large part by who and what he surrounded himself with. Michael Shelley surrounded himself with his fellow archival assistants and one Gertrude Robinson, and then solely Gertrude,
and then worse than nothing,
he became defined by lies and the madness stretched between the angles of a smile.
A what existed named Michael Shelley. It was made of smiles and landscapes and time, and tried its best to forget that it had ever been a quiet and gentle man who traveled to the end of the world because a woman he loved like a mother asked him to.