In the silence between word and word, between day and day…
In that moment of silence before the pushing forth of meaning, the foundation for the making of the world flowers from the depth of the abyss.
It’s in that flowering that the tides of the waters of my heart flow unrestricted, seeking who knows what, moving where they’re being pulled.
Without the swelling of those waters, no story is worth telling.
2 thoughts on “Whence the stories come”
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