#56

He stands, and his standing demands attention. A riot of souls seated with shoulders touching fall silent. He is nervous, pacing. With one ritualistic woop he calls forth his courage, begins. His words vibrate the air, stir and simmer collective synapses, summon ideas from that place that none visit unless invited. When he opens the book that he penned himself, to share the the words he spilled, he bends the cover without reverence for his creation. Its spine cracks horrifically, a brutality unnoticed, revealing that which he holds sacred, and that which he does not.