Kent Kemmish
(There's nothing random here. It's just an arbitrarty heuristic cutoff point.) What I wrote to her my muse when i was dying i found a subset of fiction that deepened into itself like a sunset that can't end the horizon asymptotic the scene growing barely more beautiful forever. If you keep looking you will find easy poetic precursors to all the physics of the next nine centuries i promise. And if you gut every instinct your pen is made to follow you'll come across a lair of glowworms so bright, thick, sliceable, and joyful in their rolling, so suddenly birds singing, so utterly space shuttle, that each weave and loom on thought too mosaic and utterance too fantasy, each waning motif of postmodern selfdefense, each protagonist orphaned by the plot to a universe adventureless but never without some tawdry peril, and to complete the music of this consideration, you'll come up to the peak of a hill, all your laziness bottled out of you, inspiration fully carbonated and athirst, where you'll sit dispensing ninja-sized nuggets of wisdom-kind children, floating to flight instantane without ESP, and then we'll have guardians, well-advertised star systems, fully reconfigurable constellations, nebula that don't go grim, freshest air in deepest space, the legislation of forever, in chains. Gee. ________