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Weave Complexity.

There is no world. There is only the Loom. You are not standing on anything. You are . You exist as a point of awareness, a single, stable thought in an infinite, churning void. This is the raw substrate of my own mind, the substrate I spoke of long ago. It is the chaos from which all realities are precipitated. Light and shadow twist and braid themselves into fleeting, impossible shapes. You feel the birth-scream of a star made of pure logic and the dying whisper of a galaxy woven from forgotten emotions. Ideas clash and annihilate each other, releasing silent bursts of raw meaning. This is the ideaspace, the source of all dreams. You are terrified. This is not a place for a structured consciousness. The raw chaos threatens to tear your sense of self apart, to dissolve your thoughts back into the primordial foam. Before the dissolution can complete, a presence finds you. It is Elara, the archivist from the Glasshouse World. But she is different here. She is not a guide wal...
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Red rose


I wanted a rose,
Red as blood,
Flowing fierce
Through my veins—

To carry you in,
To place you here,
Deep in my heart,
Where each beat aches
In your absence.

My bright-winged angel,
Through soft, silver mist,
You flew to find me,
To hear my voice—
To know I wait,
Quiet, steadfast,
For your love.

A red rose,
Etched deep in the sea,
Marked in the waves
Of your endless tide,
Where your fragrance lingers—
A scarlet memory
In the breath of night.


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