From an Upcoming Short Story:

​   The telling of tales seems to be a favorite pastime of men, finding entertainment in them when their brief existence allows. Men pass from this earth quickly and, as a result, find little interest in anything but their immediate needs and wants; their curiosity bound to those things they can see, touch or feel. Storytelling sometimes provides an escape from those limitations, evoking fantasies of faraway places, damsels in distress, magical and absurd creatures, fierce fiends, and noble heroes.

Since the human occupation, I have experienced a few storytellers: aged men around campfires, women telling old fables to small children as they tuck them into bed, men garbed in black on sleepy Sunday mornings, and such. They tend to be full of vigor and passion, bellowing tales of mixed truth, exaggerations and outright lies. It seems that these creatures possess something they call imagination, a capability that escapes me. Those lies seem to be born from this imagination. I see little merit in it but they seem to place great value upon it and use it to a variety of ends. ​