and so it goes. the nature of writing is it can slide all over the place, through the dark minds of any character (the baker the knight the driving ace), out into the twilight meadow full of flowers; it can rise into the ultrasky and look down upon all the universe.

back and forth through time goes the writers pen, the ink conjuring the nevermemories,  breathing life into ruins, fluffing up the green mossy tufts that grow from the cracks between broken bricks. the ink is the flagstone shattered by an ancient dragon, now dead, its huge skeleton still grinning down into the darkness of its cave. its endless treasure hoard still glimmers faintly there, spiderwebs and pale cavecrabs crawl the rolling hills of gold and jewels.

and yet a writer, like a dragon, may use its inkeyes to see backwards: into the past: and the dragon is alive, as vast and blue as the midday sky, all her golden treasure glowing in her #bioluminescence. sunk down in it, only her nostrils showing, like two empty eye sockets. the gold crackles with electricity. for a blue dragon breathes lightning, blackcloud sea storms trouble the horizons of her heart.

the pressure is back in my head. it squeezes wrongly my creativity ugh. maybe its a cold. maybe its my life. it is everything, and thus: it is the flowing water of god inundating me the fish who forgot how to swim

an old man with a crooked staff walked up a narrow path. he bowed his head, holding the wide brim of his hat low, for the wind swept down the mountains ahead like a wave. the thicked grooved trunks of old pines flanked him on both sides, shadowy mountain peaks loomed before him like watchful gods.

he kicked rocks out of his way grumbling. the going was slow, and his back hurt, but he knew he was close. the trunks of the trees were getting thicker. he had spotted even a few lightning sparrows. he pulled out a large golden compass, like a plate, and looked into its glass machinery: it hummed and trembled, like a heart in his hand. yes, close now. he looked forward and scowled; clouds were gathering ahead, large and dark, stacking like pancakes: lightningbutter, thunder syrup. haha even the landscape turns delicious and protects her, he the old man thought. who wouldn’t?

so he the old man sighs, with his forkpen his knifepencil, not hungry, wet with rain he himself made wet.

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