A couple of smoothe dry pages moved by the soft hands that control ages,of thought and the process, protest of an incapable body,not yet devoloped but getting there,enveloped a sudden hidden share,of a mess.

Piles of imagination, fantasies, and ladders. To climb with just a novel. Miles of an unmarked nation, sunny seas, and matters that grinds dust into double,the satisfaction that can be obtained with just the eyes. As of action, I am restrained with such surprises, reality doesn't match this, overwhelming feeling of love for something that is not of existence, resisted, twisted glympses, and intenseness just to rinse it.Now who am I to fly without the wings of a mage? That I am able to fly with just a few blinks of a page ? Undecided to who I am. I'm divided, I am not of this realm. I'm innocent. A bystander addicted to ink. I benefit.