The words were written down in a spidery handwriting, all curves and steps and turns. The writing itself, however, was far from frivolous. It seemed...cold. The paper seemed cold. How quite odd.
It did not stay cold for long, no, as it was thrown into the fiery heath. And yet..a fragment of it survived.
Words.
Some say that words are nothing but the reflection of an image, the futile casting of a lightened thought, the deceived measuring of a mind's inkling.
