Age of Consent plays overhead. Music drifting down upon me in this large room filled with square tables and large glass walls where I sort and order my words, constantly pushing them forward, constanly pushing them into their new order.
Once inside, the words mingle with the rind of ourselves, becoming a part of us in ways that never leave us, truly. Once mingled, the change endures, the self alters and the new order of self takes its place, in the long, long line of selves that we once were, that we have ever been, that we are yet to be.
The world is full of unending hope and infinite possibility. The Universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper, someone said that once, and it is true. The magic around us seeps into and out of us with our very breath, connecting us all, linking the past and the future, and carrying us along on the currents of song, and space, and time.
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