The world is a fine place.
A lovely place and good mother.
The world is massive, its green fields spread wider than any farm, its hidden mountains yawn in hideous mockery of our tiny kingdoms.
The world cannot be seen by a single person's vision.
To see the walls of the world, our whole tribe need stand in a circle, trusting the words of eachother.
Siblings, parents, children, lovers: here is a story, I've dreamed it truly.
I tell you the truth of my dream.
I know no other truth.
There was a little boy just like me in the world.
I know he was just like me.
He was just like you too.
He had no parents, he had spat the world out, unable to eat it.
The world tasted too ... too prickly.
Too bitter and sour and sweet and soft.
It was a terrible and wonderful place.
Who could eat the world, even in Dreaming?
One day the boy went walking in a strange land, where there were songs but no singers.
The boy did not sing either.
He was alone.
He was walking alone when he fell into a pit.
He lay there, broken, and he did not sing.
Sand crumbled into the pit, slow as all the time the world had to live, and the boy watched it.
Circling the hole were the drooping fruit trees.
Some moments the treebranches shook with beautiful wind.
They sang, albeit hollowly.
So he began to talk to the trees, and wait for them to answer, although some days there would be no wind.
The trees would drop rotten fruit, and he'd eat what was given. A long time later, he realized the trees weren't talking to him, so he climbed out of the hole. He went many places in the world, after that, through kingdoms of demons and farmlands of sunlight. Wherever he went, he never spoke with anyone, and he would stop by the edges of every pit he came across. He would stand there and stay very still as the wind rocked him softly. One day a dog found him and sat next to him.