He couldn't remember when he had stopped seeing himself
in her eyes, their marriage becoming simply a collection
of memories, where only the mundane held them together.
It seemed so simple at first: creation. Characters whose
lives he carved out in his novel. And now this: a man
created in his own image and likeness, stepping out of
the virtual into the real, in order to seduce his wife.
But Michael quickly loses control over his creation and
slips into a world where he no longer knows where reality
ends and fiction begins. And he begins to wonder if he
is writing himself out of existence.
At what point does fiction turn to lies? And lies
themselves in turn become real?
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