Dream for me. As if I had a chance, so fragile in my hollow form. As if these hands still could shape with the will of creation... And the boundless. Once again in the valley of silver mists, we splinter. Diminished. Defeated. We called this home. Shattered by needles and doubt, freedom was to drown. Tongues deep in the fountain, we drank the timelessness. Bleak leylines marked the mountainside, as if mocking such contempt. Begging to be torn for the secrets that writhe within. Feed them to those seeking to dispel the drudge. Dread melts from the palms of the valley. Glorious smokes of wisdom pervade the land, without misery.

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