Fingers fly across the keys, bringing to life dark, dripping forests and the sultry sea breezes of far off dreams.
Darkness falls on the fingers, but in that other world the sun blazes to life, gilding faces and eyelashes and snowcapped hills with honey-gold light.
The sounds of passing cars fade into the darkness, replaced by the whistling wind through the naked, rattling trees and the whinny of velvet-nosed horses.
Their breath rises in ghostly wisps of steam, floating away in the wind that blows over mountains, valleys, rivers, oceans.
Clouds roll in superficial swiftness across the sky as characters are born and draw breath and perhaps die on the canvas that is their lives, their world.
The fingers pause. The chest rises and falls.
A battle is fought and won; the earth is stained with blood and the air rings with the eerie cries of the dying.
A baby squalls in the arms of its mother, its ragged mewling cries as herald its entry into the world.
Life is created, life is stolen.
There was day and there was night.
The first Chapter.
Vers Les Etoiles 