By the table sits the one. In him lies the birthplace of a billion lives, the beginning of a million galaxies, and his lullabies are the whimpers of the deep mysteries of the world.
By this table, sits that one. He is the writer. In him lies the power of creation only limited by his instrument of creation.
Can you imagine a million lifetimes contained with the slender walls of an ink cylinder? A thousand galaxies condensed into a cylinder?
Indeed only the writer has the muscle to carry the pen.
But you ask, when does this pen get too heavy for this one the writer to use?
Indeed, if you close the gates of the soul, show me the one who has the power to weld that pen.
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