He has become a poet recently. He could
not believe it.  The pen he had used all
these years had only given words...
and structure. Form and flow. Rhythm
and rhyme.

But the Evening whispers things.  Cruel
truths, only he can understand.

'You are not a writer!' she whispers in
a current which almost deafens his spirit. 'Look at all you have accomplished.
Your pen writes life, not imagined folly'.

His soul departs from his body in an
attempt to flee this truth but the evening
grasps it by the fingers and smiles.

She disappears and in the moments
after...  her voice in his ears.

'You are the flow of the universe. Be like
those before.  Be like the greats ones
who knew no boundaries'.

So he picks up his dagger and cuts open
his finger. Dipping his quill into the
blood he looks at the open air around
him. As he writes on the wind... the world
begins anew.