There is no need to wait in the weeping wind.

It is not enough merely for the universe to be: it must also be shared.

now, the moon washes her skin in stars

The obsessions of the father seep into the son.

Caught in the malaise of a disenchanted world, true magic should matter more than ever to us.

It was after his death the stories started getting told.

Vita lay on a cold slab of stone, feeling disappointed with death.

Stories pursue truth.

how our village is not small / but vast, how we are made of light

The eagle never fails to come.

All fiction is to a certain extent metaphorical.

The fact that this AI discourse is so widespread testifies to an increasing inability to define the act of artistic creation.

I’m on this beach, and I think I might be dead.

When you go down to the sea you’ll understand

what it is to burn and drown

Sun is an evanescent being, hiding / behind distance, making themself small

“Who are you today?” I asked her when I woke, finding eyes of vibrant blue looking into mine.

Wither followed illness, and Winter stole her

We tore down all the maps, spreading them across every surface. We ran our fingers over the lines, trying in vain to see the absences.

But now it is peaceful here, roaming and listening.

What is at stake today is not only the conception of what literature should be, but the relevance of literature itself.