I want to write in bright white light, to draw with free-flowing water.
I want to find sentences that formed in the cradle of speech and have been waiting ever since to be discovered. Lifted from the dead weight of discordant information; sculpted and shaped for you.
I want to to see what you see, to taste the joy of becoming free again.
Words shine, words flow; sentences living together in peace, everything in its right place, supporting the burden of precision.
Darkness flows across the land as the lights go out; dryness flows across the land as the power drains away. Where are the fires, where are the stories that will keep us alive in the evenings when the spirits ride unchecked? Where are the stories crafted with bright light and pure water?
