Once upon a time there was a little girl who had no-one. She had no friends, as her only friend had left her. Her parents were always busy so she used to tell stories. She would tell stories to her teddies and to a muddy man who always used to drip water onto the carpet. He listened intently to the stories woven by the little girl, who herself started them with no idea as to how they would finish. The thing is, this man wasn’t real. He was dead and looking for his daughter. As the girl grew she noticed she saw less and less of the muddy man she used to tell stories to. So, in time, the girl stopped telling stories to her teddy bears and withdrew even further from other children. That is where the little girl stayed for quite some time, with her head in a book only putting it down when her sometimes father came home. Even though she was little she knew she didn’t have friends like other children. She wasn’t like them, she wasn’t trivial. She did anything she could to keep her worst thoughts from her mind. Even though she was little; she was angry. Later the little girl will only remember the muddy man in dreams, dreams of jellybean factories and other such childish things.