Content

A man sat in a dusty old house, hunched over a desk forging power unrivaled.  A script: the perfect plan.  A plot that would enable one to successfully take over the world, if they were to follow it.

Years he had spent writing his scheme, but earlier that day, something had happened to him.  He became happy once again; his endless sorrows had ended.

The final stroke of the ink-dipped feather was made, and he then sat upright, staring at his finished product; a parchment of unparalleled power.

Then, without a word, he lifted it and held it over the candle that for so many years gave him the sight to create it.

Because: He was content.