Words.
Words and words and words, and sound and fury, signifying everything.
Speaker, I. Weaver, I. Planner, she? But yes, but no, but maybe still and all things at once. What is a planner but a weaver without a loom? I am the weaver and the loom, and the threads of my web is called from stars. I chart my course now, free of the doldrums, and the wind fills my sails. Excitement grips me like a sword loosed from its sheath, and my heart leaps to be in motion again. Not still, I. To be still is to be dead. To be in motion, to live.
She was terrified of me when she learned who I was, but I was not surprised. I knew she would be scared, nor can I deny that she should have been. I am a dangerous and wicked man, and were I at another step in my journey, she would have died a hundred times over. But I am not at any other point in my journey. I am not where I am as I am writing this, even. Forward, I. Ever forward. To walk upon the Pattern is to know that you can never stop, for in stopping, you are destroyed.
I was not destroyed upon the Pattern, so I know I never stopped. I am not stopping. I will never stop.
I stare at our problem, and plan. Planner, I, now. The web is being eaten, strand by strand, and a new web is in its place. Easier was destruction without end, for our universe loves to live. The one who grows, it is a greater threat. Growth, our strength. Motion, I. Direction? Virgil. I know only the movement forward. Let others be damned or blessed by the course.
