The Story of Tiny Norman.

Beneath the carpet, there is a tiny house. The tiny walls are yellow, and the tiny roof is green and in the middle of the tiny roof there is a tiny chimney painted red.
In this house lives a tiny man named Norman. He has a tiny white beard, and always always always wears his tiny purple hat with the tiny brim cocked just to the left side of his tiny head.
Norman is a peaceful man. A solitary man, never more contented than when sat at his tiny brown desk, in front of his tiny blue typewriter, lost deep in his giant imagination, typing away.
Norman has lived here longer than he can remember, writing his giant stories on his tiny typewriter. Stories of the smallness and vastness of things. Stories of lost worlds, and lost tribes. Stories of unfathomable colour and limitless compassion. Stories of the beauty of things.
But now Norman sits at his tiny desk, his tiny head in his tiny hands, weeping. For not two minutes ago, a swirling black grey funnel of dirt and dust reached out of the beige sky and down upon the tiny roof of his tiny house, and all the stories he had written on his tiny typewriter over the uncountable solitary years, all his stories of the beauty of things, were lifted up from their many tiny piles beside his tiny desk, up into the air, where they swirled madly for three tiny seconds, before being sucked up into his tiny red chimney and pulled out the other side high up into the swirling grey black mass.
The grey black funnel of dust and dirt swirled for a further eight tiny seconds before rising high up into the vast beige sky above and disappearing almost as fast as it had appeared.
Leaving Norman, the solitary writer with the tiny white beard, and the tiny purple hat with the tiny brim cocked just to the left side of his tiny head, sat at his tiny brown desk, in front of his tiny blue typewriter, confused and sad.
With his head still in his hands, he wept tiny sparkling tears, and a tiny sob fell from his tiny mouth.
But one solitary sob from this solitary man, was all the grey black funnel would get.
For as soon as the tiny sob was out and gone, Norman the tiny solitary writer, looked over at his tiny red chimney, looked out his tiny window at the vast beige sky above and finally looked down at his tiny blue typewriter that was his favourite thing that he owned, and placed his tiny fingers on the tiny keys.

And Norman smiled.