Sunday, September 28, 2014
"I sing the song of aeons," he muses to me. "My brothers looked upon the world and decided, no, demanded that it would be shaped by our whim. We turn reality to sand, to mold in our hands with the water of our voice, to purify with the fires of language." He turns back to the war raging in open, empty space behind him. "We build our dreams out of glass," he sighs, "And expect others not to break them."