I should write this book, he thought. The challenge was that it was a process of changing. Each word would change him.

So he sat down and set himself on fire, like that guy in the news years ago. The Buddhist Monk.

He was Present.

And still is, according to the evolving and shaping narrative of an ever expanding something-verse. Poetic-verse.

Turn and twist.

He sought to flavor the moment with texts, holy texts from his friends and touch on empires.

Empires rose and fell in the time it took to text and call his friends. He was as they say. Something else.

She was up north, in Wyoming south of Yellowstone. Life could hold a rock and a bit of magic in it to the pox, take the granted for what it was worth.

But to feel gratitude. To really feel gratitude, was it something that could be sung about? Maybe with the writer at play, with an instrument and an motive and an ethic, could disapprove the method in which conveying an unspoken wonder let in the time that spirals.

Time was a dewdrop.

A spell was cast on the night sky, which hosted countless burning brilliances.

The Monk hissed, and she put out the fire.