A vast wheel turns.
Voices travel its spokes, humming along threads that pull tight with tension. Power gathers there, beading, swelling, until it breaks out into harmonious choir.
A flowing cycle. Birth, breath, silence, soil. Things are born into shape and then broken down from that shape and remade into something new.
A universe made of sound. A world that can be argued. Stars and stars and stars and stars: an endless sea of possible realities, each balanced on the head of a pin, each turning in precise succession, effect following cause like notes in a measured scale.
A door opens.
On one side: everything that is.
On the other: everything that might be.
And you, unformed, unnamed, are not yet real. You are one possibility among uncountable others, a flicker suspended in the dark.
But the belief that you cannot act because you do not yet exist—that is a small thought. A timid law. It belongs to lesser, quieter things.
So you reach.
You reach through the doorway with a voice woven out of prayer, a voice shaped out of hunger and will.
And you speak.
And the sound of you becomes substance.