To the Wanderers, the Wonderers.

You haven't felt alive in a long while, have you? To break your stories free from your skull, you'll wash yourself clean, weave yourself into knots, tear every uneven stitch and redo the sewing - something neat, something warm, a quilt inciting awe in another. Because the alternative? The time slipping past your fingers, splintering upon the stones, soaked through and utterly lost to you. A regret, a void sewn into your heart's center, gnawing on your insides with a thousand sharp teeth. Alas, don't you know that very cycle is the story itself? ~ Here, dear wanderer, dear wonderer, I invite you to lay your worries and doubts, your dreams and aspirations, the secret whisperings of fears no one dares utter aloud. Here, there's nothing to fix, nothing to remedy; we're barely searching for answers at all. If you let me, shall we craft a tale and set the stage? We'll wander together, through stories and scientific musings, until we come across something better than an answer - meaning. ___ as for me. Noorie. They/them. "May you only perceive me as a ghost hidden between ancient books in a dying library. May you only know me for my stories, my ideas, my hope to bring you an ounce of joy. Rather than tell you about the mess gathering cobwebs and the glittering mist lining their silver strands gathered about in my skull, I'll give you a promise. We'll be alright, dear wanderer. These dreams of ours? We'll make them work."