Even water, so set in its nature, can ripple, architects can plan, and spiders can weave their webs, the sun and the moon in the sky, and we’re dancing on a string, but maybe they plan your grievances, death and change, the heavens have an answer to them, climb a mountain, and leap down with faith, bow your head, push it in, harder, and have a taste, our stories may be weaved, the heavens considered it, with thought and intention, the rumble of thunder, the creaking of wood, fire in your bed, release of rain, hold on, keep pushing, sailing our ships, these turbulent waves, the path is set, weird nipples, so prominent, but we don’t have to think about it…Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.