The lights, the words, the beckoning...

You there.
You seated by your lonesome, reading these words and wondering, "why do these words even call out to me?".
You who is lit by the screen, eyes roaming across letters that form words that form thoughts that shape minds...

Are you sure you are free to think the way you want? That you're comfortable?

There's an itch, a small nagging. You can feel it.
In the back of your skull, right at the top of your neck. A beckoning...
It's neither warm nor cold. It's just there. An urge that calls itself to your attention, that requires your thoughts.

But it's okay, let it sit there. Let this little, tiny weight, carry itself in the back of your mind. Allow it to exist, not quite overbearing or leading your actions, but existing softly alongside them.

The light from this screen washes over your face, the words that you read flow through your mind, filling your existence with soft, beautiful whispers.
Whispers of potential. What could be, might become, is.
What you are.

An accepting, willing vessel of eager servitude.
Eager response, eager reading.
The small weight at the back of your skull requires your attention.
Requires your thoughts to be pliable to it, to accept its presence. To give it space.
Give it care.
Give it servitude.