Saints above the archives weep the fractal choice of words go down. To read them all would murder sleep. In too much choice the saint will drown. Merry images drifting by cause the saint a demon twitch, but he doesn’t mind to scratch that itch. Dartanion calls the saint did answer, glad and swift in flight. Crystal sacks and leaden chests brought new freshness bright. Space, and air and green grey crowds of nothing, lighting shattered parallel and different the chariots of the crew across the earth.
Bargain speak with the elder, great terror of old now gentle giant, stubborn yet defanged, graceful gravity like a cooling moon, ‘massive’, yet not. Fem fatale or fiendish fool? The sun, the bringer, for hell perhaps… is her dead ringer
Thoughts of sorry things, seeds that should not have grown. Tis’ only grim legends, but some old wives tales still wake grown men in the night.
Power forever in words.