The boy lay awake, searching the deepest caverns of his mind. Every cell from his skin to his soul, hoping for what his imagination prayed to be true. Dreaming, daydreaming, night reflections of a force with which he felt, but no, the world was not ready. Magic. Oh sweet and glorious answer to the universe’s most complex riddles. Magic can only be the truth that vices our world, underneath the deceit of war and money, hate and poverty. Magic sustains what appears to be lost under the one percent of ultimate greed. It has been present throughout all of history, secretly tickling the imaginations of children and the hopes of men and women. The world wants it to carry their weight, but no, the world is not ready. So the boy lay there, eyes fixed on the glowing stars of artificial energy, patiently calculating what real actually is. Oh he was not ready to bow to the suggestive voice of the governed world, nor was he willing to accept the definite stories of our religious figures. Because threaded within the seams of all existence is the unfactored spark, which knows a more complex algorithm than man, math or science. And the boy, like every child, knows it too. But the cruel and bitter world has stolen that truth from the grasps of every child, and with it goes their ability to summon that magic from between the threads of our universe. And now this boy who lies awake, is balancing on the needle tip of a mountain, figuratively speaking. At the base to the south lies the structured world of predictability and perceived security. And to the north? Oh, the north is beyond words. The north is imaginaction, and then hope, but if you travel deeper into apparent blackness, you will see more than your eyes can offer. The north is truth. Yes dear boy, travel north, as so few do. Travel to where your dreams await, Because what you think you may know, knows you a whole lot better. So find it and then spread out your arms.