We all know the source. He keeps us two steps ahead of the rest and never shows up empty-handed. We know what’s next and what comes after that. If we look too closely we can see our own end.
We gave everything away to be part of the story we are telling. We live simply, like true scribes. The world around us is our truest muse; it holds the secret to the way our words are shaped. Our stories are the sap of a fresh wound on the bark of humanity. One word, a drop that melts over the surface of consciousness, pulls it, bends it. The source sees to it.
The stories travel to us, often from the strangest places. We laugh as we dissect the pieces, the demeanor, the lies. Chasing these things leads us down corridors that are unfit for the skittish. The power drunk feed on the storied tellers who share their secrets. It is life but not death.
But only until you cannot resist the last story. We know where it all ends, how they will do it. They talk about it openly. We already know how it reads but you want to see it, as if you might change it. The journey calls you away from our mission like the big stories often do but it is not time.
Leave the last story for the end. The source will tell us what we need to know so we can keep our distance from them, just like he always has. We are the blades that hew the bark. We are scribes with work to do. Leave the last story for its time; it will wait until our end.