You can, so easily, dance through all the moments of your days, letting the time flow past your movements like some slow languid river that eases the traveller to far distant places only ever heard of in late night tales and stories.
Me? I am merely a teller of such stories. I can weave the words around your movements and conjure devils and demons out of the flames of the camp fires. I can tell of lovers and of princesses I have known. Young women who have followed me away from the dying fires into the darkness and the shadows, once I have told all I can tell.
I have told of monsters and journeys, lovers, wars and misunderstandings. I have tangled and untangled fates and destinies and I have told of what will come to those too young to have seen beyond the distant hills.
I have travelled there, beyond the hills, beyond the valleys, I have crossed deserts and fought through jungles to bring you these tales and one day I will tell the tale of how you came to me to bring me stories in your dances on those days when I thought I had nothing more to tell.
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