I have written into existence all the aeons that have ever been with my pen of pure amaranth. By the candle of my third eye, I write new universes into being with steadiness of will and an undying love of the infinite. I scoop up the black dross of human sorrow and carve brave new channels of being where we can sit in audience to the boundless expansion of shadow, and rest from our plethoric injuries. I honour the moon with my scrying stick and draw down new secrets hidden in the cumulus expanse above the lake where my gilled companions feast forever on algae and dead fish. I place my feet in the mirror lake and recoil in pleasure at the smarting cold. I smile at the sighing leaves and silent magic of the palace night in which I am the lone monarch. I envisage new eras of lightless space travel, where, as one, we can know the hidden caves of loss and despair...
