And all the voices between
Old and new,
To you, the sage collage, I call
As I steal the words printed in Timeís
Past and present lives.
And to Originality,
Who has grown so old
That she might be reborn
To those precious few
Who write anyway,
I call even louder.
And from you,
Keeper of my secret,
I ask for silence
As we move through this windy continent
On the darkest evening of the year.
The night is quick. Stunning. Bars the light with black breath that burns like cold irons and the cutting wind that sweeps us away. You come because you think I am funny, but you do not know that tonight, I am serious.
Until I whisper in your ear. Close:
Many (Oí many far more important than we)
Want to read my screenplay.
But itís not done.
Iím revising the climax.
Iíll show you.
I press your hand: Courage, friend. As we fly to where I go at night.
And the whispers, they keep coming.
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