A green sky was the backdrop to a darkened landscape.  The old man bent ever closer towards my face.  His features were rounded, his head like a globe.  Tiny discs of milky azure were his eyes: the corridors to infinity.  
"There are no ancient scripts," he whispered to me with a strong sense of urgency.  
Then, the return to silence, save for the fire crackling in the background, feeding itself strong throughout the night.








 










 
 
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