I manipulate you, you know.
I lay out a path of words to take you where I want you to go. And you go, fitting your steps to the rhythm of my words.
I wave a hand over here to keep you from looking over there. If you see what I want you to ignore, you turn away.
I tell you I am humble. You build me up, disregarding the arrogance required to assume my thoughts and words would be of interest.
I make you cry, each word hitting you in the same painful place. You call it beautiful and send others to weep.
I decide the effect I want, then plot and scheme against you to achieve it. You applaud and ask me to do it again.
I carefully calculate just how much return I must give you, then give a sliver more. You thank me for my generosity.
As a reader, I am one of you, kin. When I write, you are mine.
And I am at your mercy.