Storyteller, your waters run dry. There is no drop to drink from, the land is cracked. No spare weeds grace the zigzag scars of your backyard pool, under which was your ocean. Your tongue lies dead in your head and your heart, used to being parched by now. It lolls and words fall, but you recoil at the black mess that you regurgitate. Every audience has tired and left you, forgotten. You are not even a story that the trees would carry to another home though the winds. There is no trace of the happiness that took form as moonlight madness, no twinkle in the eye of the sky. There is no witness to the nights when spirits danced on the boundaries of your stories as you filled your ocean even while draining it, except your own eyes, which are blind to the dry earth in your threadbare home for memories of those nights play on loop in them. Even when it rains, when storms tear through the stitches of your skin, nothing moves in your wasteland, so cocooned. You will soon collapse into yourself. Your words immortalize none, move none, time has never remembered you for you even to be forgotten. Stumble upon a stone, storyteller and let blood spill, warm. Gouge out the illusions in your eyes and see. See again. Collect those twigs that are still left scattered in the yard and start a fire. Let it seep through the cracks of the land and reach the ice around your spring. Thaw, slow, thaw. Weep again, smile again, see dimensions again. See the world again and drink from your waters again. Let words spill with your tears, let your tongue carry the heart of the world again. Be again, storyteller, be again.