The room is quiet....the rhythmic pulse of his shallow breathing is the only sound...then the frenetic, dull plastic clicks of his keyboard and mouse. 2 am, and the final touches are put on. Glancing up from the glare of the screen, his eyes are heavy and creased...age has not been kind, no, it has not been kind at all. Compulsion drives the blackness through. He feels as though it is the right thing to do, so he continues as he always has.

The faker has a purpose. Believers want to believe, debunker's do not...somewhere in the middle lies humanities response to the unknown. That is where the faker lies. He is unsure of his role, but it plays an important part...he just wishes he knew what it was. To draw out the real, or suppress the “truth”? Somewhere in between he figures. No instructions, no men in black, just a feeling that it needs to be done, for better or for worse...and he continues.

What is real? What is not? We are born into a violent world, and we die from a violent world, so we seek that which comforts, that which provides the solace or hope to continue. Elsewhere...anywhere but here. Seeking escape from the cool clammy hands of reality, we look to the unknown for meaning, unaware that the cold eyes that stare back are our own.

Religion fills the void...but who's religion? The cobwebs of history reveal a dark knife in the night, power, corruption, money, lust, greed...greasy with envy, lubricated with the coils of a dark serpent or the rising sun, you chose...throw the dice...our faker has.

So he continues his toil, filling the electronic 1's and 0's of our modern web of information with images to inspire...or to instill fear. Getting up he grabs his cup of coffee, and opens the old manilla envelope beside the ashtray. Reaching in he pulls out 2 old photographs....a chill vibrates through his aging frame...he wants the eyes staring back at him to be human, very badly....he knows they are not.