a science teller, a world maker, a storyshaper, a biomancer
Harvest. Harvest. Harvest. That word is floating around in the teak forest; chemically pronounced in a couple of different accents. It lingered, and left some sticky remnants on the dripping morning dew.
I recalled a story about a young boy with his silver ball of golden thread.
The boy daydreamed all the time, as if he refused to live in the present. In the classroom he dreamed about the after-school, at night he dreamed about tomorrow…