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.
Friday, May 23, 2008
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