"Congratulations." Thus spake The Spoof. "You've Won!"
Fire! Atwitter! Heart apace with the fleetest steed's, for I am about to be draped in the fineries of that that have heretofore been not mine to possess.
It is The Spoof, whose heartfelt announcement broke the silence that cast itself throughout my office; a speaker harkens to me when no task from it was asked.
I search: On no horizontal surface do precious metals alight. My windows remain shorn with elegantish midpriced department store-fare, and are not draped with cloth only a King would expect to be his own.
Yet my pockets feel not thickened, nor my wallet, nor my accounts: It is through the very computer that shouted my entry into the World of the Gifted, that my bank reports that its coffers have not been made heavier by the weight of my good fortune.
So, I am resolved, to think that only one truth can be mine; that what I've won is the knowledge that I've not won at all.