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In the hypoxic mists of a forgotten and unloved age, a dessicated regent sat cornered and alone on a balsa wood throne. a broken castle high on a frozen hill, craning his disjointed neck for a glimpse at the distant river below. the water. "from whence does it come? and where will it go? why that path, and not this? " he asked. he had asked this question, every day, every night, since he was a boy, cornered and alone, an impossible crown weighing down on his guileless head. his gnarled hand strained towards the horizon the way his heart strained for escape. over and over, 40,400 days and nights. The birds, the fish, the clouds, the sky, all came and went away, leaving him cornered still, ever alone.

 

One day a mighty storm came, and the river overflowed. the waters turned, dark and angry, and the skies cracked, and the wind tore through the hollows and the holocausts. the castle shuddered and shattered, and the king fell down and down. caught in the currents, tossed by the waves, the king knew at last from whence it came, and where it would go. that all journeys were possible, paths beyond paths, worlds beyond worlds.  that it was never too late to set out again, to chart a new voyage. to click home within one's self, and begin anew.