copywriter.

Oh, hello! I didn't see you there. Because I'm pixels on a screen. Or maybe you've printed me out. Thank you. But I'm not worth the trees you just killed. In fact, I'm not worth anything unless you give me meaning, see me as words, grasp me as another's ideas instead of technological pockets of illumination. In a way, this isn't about me at all. In fact, this is about you. You've spent your entire life getting here, to witness these codes, imagine their aim, revel with them in space-time continuums our forefathers would've burned me for referencing. But they couldn't, you see, because I am but pixels. They'd be the forebears tried for screaming such necromancy and you're the one who saw it all happen. After all, you're the one who believes in my magic.