Words Are Winds

The world is not an intelligent place. Though it may be filled with havens of knowledge, oases of wisdom, and back-alleys of common sense, none of these are permanent enough to be written on a map. And yet, I implore you to be not dismayed. Words are winds, able to travel great distances without tiring, able to enter inaccessible hovels of secret hearts on the backs of whispers, capable of surviving well beyond the hands that wrote them, the lips that spoke them. They build magnificent cathedrals stone by stone, sentence by sentence, decorated with all the pretty punctuation, tapestries of patchwork metaphors coloring the walls, grand gardens blooming with inimitable opening lines and glorious fountains of sculpted dialogues. Villains perched on ledges, with hideous faces and monstrous features, all hidden beneath the lights of the cities yet to be created. There are a thousand cosmos to bring forth. Words are winds.