The vaporous fingers of the ancients reached across time. They dropped petals of truth that fluttered before our eyes; of the aggregation of witnesses, I alone saw them.
An argument riffled through the congregation of of old ones. Stagnation overtook the thrumming of life and left potsherds for this now.
This plot summary leaves my lips and floats before the aggregation; a warning that our novel travels a similar trajectory.
Accord weaves through us. We will not vitrify. We will be the water in the garden, and its growth will illuminate the world.