we paint moonlight over our words. we string along letters in single file at times, and at others we let them float to wherever they wish to go. we are unbound. we listen to no voice but our own. we follow ourselves. we trust our masterpieces. we practice threading thoughts together and inking them onto blank paper. we could fill galaxies with our writing. pages and pages of dreams and heartbreak and desperation shot out into the never ending wonder that is outer space. we’re fascinated by this thing called creating. with how we can merge two paths together to make them more parallel through a few scribbles. we pull nebulas from skies in other dimensions. we give our stories spines. strong. tougher than ever before. lace them with inspiration and let it linger. we conjure ideas from nothing but a thin wisp of a conversation overheard from a few worlds away. we mix together broken syllables. we give them homes. we provide them with a shelter trapped within the pages. we defy gravity. we break the system of time. we rebel in the smallest of ways, a shift in the vortex ever so slight it almost cannot be seen. but our mark is there. it always will be. we pave the way for other deep thinkers, for other artists, for other passionate writers different but the same. our words fuel the similarly peculiar, allowing them to acquire wings of their own. we leave fingerprints on their hearts, warm like the sunshine. we explore. we grow. we live. we fly. we see things through fresh eyes. when we write. the stars sing. volcanoes crumble. doubt dies. when we write. we become the evolution.