You are my escape from the dreary normalcy of life. I can't imagine life without you all. You, who are, sadly, Nothing but letters strung together on paper.
It's odd; though you, in truth, are just words, You seem to be of flesh and blood and bones.
Alas, you are bound by the leather sky and the chains of thread and cannot fly, at least, not like you used to.
You are the smoke-creatures that the ancient storytellers blow through their paper lips.
