I remember waking up beneath a quilt of glittering lights and a pitch black, unending vista of far-flung worlds and stars, galaxies so far and yet so near. I had nothing but a clear stone that was wrapped around my neck that had a name on it, and beside me was an empty book that never seems to fill. 

Furthermore, I saw a spill of nebulae curling and stretching as if grass and reeds slowly dancing in an unseen and invisible wind, I do not know how I came to be or how I know such things, determined I wander across wings of time and space. 

In some places it has been commonplace to call me a bard, and other places I have had to part with such a title and been called  a fool.