Strange words are to be written. A story oft-told but never once remembered for its insignificance, that which is insouciant is to begin again.
"What is this thing?" the bluebird asked the boy, and for he who had no reply, there was only the truth.
"A book," he responded, at the same time flipping through its pages to believe, or try not to believe, that that was all it was. "There is writing, and thus, meaning."
The writing was but meaningless scribbling to the boy who knew not the pen and the bird who was not a man, but for all that, it was a placeholder; a bookmark; something that had been filled in, even if it had been with the point of a pen... or of a knife.
"Even if it is meaning we cannot yet understand."
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