Voices, as they say, are the beginning of the end. For each word is the product of a sound or a multitude of sounds. And each sound is the product of a thought, and each thought the product of some word once heard, read, or spoken.
Voices, as they say, rise up in harmony, in a passion that births a new world, a distinct sound . . . a longing. A formation of heaven begins, for heaven is the haven for words, for the voices that cry of knowledge, of application, and of inherent meaning.
Voices, as they say, are the beacons in the night, the stars woven together singing dirges for the lost, the wandering, and the fragmented — all who may never rise again to join the skies. Silenced forever by practical minds, fearful hearts, hearts that never sought at all.
Voices, as they say, are a unity, a combination of the memory and the dream. A solidarity that forms the coherent tales of old, the stories of a new age. For language is the key to all understanding: the voices are merely the tools of words.
Voices, as they say, are loud even in death. They reach out to the living, burned into the perpetuity of engravings, of symbolism. For the written word does not die; it hibernates only to find rebirth in the generations to come, time and again, like a springtime sun.
Voices. Oh, the voices that sing forever of an author’s paradise call in the middle of the night. In the caverns of dreams. In the tentacles of nightmares. Voices sing to command.
“Take your pen. We will wait.”