The bright noon sun began slipping away as evening crept in. Stylo, renewed with motivation and his little black book, worked diligently alongside his comrade, Wild Fire. Trixie was nowhere to be seen after lunch – assigned to a less cloud-infested region that better suited her abilities. “Do not think any less of Trixie’s generosity!” she called to Stylo, who felt no ill will, “…or of Trixie’s power!”
The shift was now over, and Stylo was once again in his little đám mây hut, letting his consciousness flow through his pen and into his leather-bound book. As he wrote, he mused...
continue reading...
