Life is a river running through time; ebbing, flowing, curving, twisting, roiling and calm.
Out amidst the vastness of the mind, a figure floats amid the waters, dipping a quill into liquid and penning along the stars a story’s constellation, line by line.
With every story, the ink that runs and drips lives into existence, that tells of yesterdays and todays and tomorrows, no matter the color all comes from a well fed by the undercurrents of spirits traversing existence along those living waters like inks themselves.
So they exist alone and blended and those blendings blending until a universe bursts into existence with all creatures and stories separate yet entwined. And the words among the stars bleed and seep and drip onto the canvas of the mind as the pictures the mind’s eye sees within and then without.