The wind howls. The whisper upon nature. The soft compliment to a cool night that chills your skin and leave your the hairs of your arm on end, but tame enough to cause the leaves of the trees to wave and create a chorus of soft song to accompany the choir of the angels in the orchestrated concert of nature.

The trees that line the paths of rockery and swaying grass for the countrymen, women and children to run, play, and live amongst the pines, and the oaks, and the birches that create the picturesque forests. The forests that line the fields of green. The fields that line the villages...


The villages that line the towns. The towns which line the cities. The cities which line the countries. The countries which line the continents. The continents which line the oceans as the land. And the land and seas that create our world.


The world that creates our water, that furnaces our stone, that ignites the fires, that breathes our air.


The world that gives life.


The life that creates beings.

That creates ///sdSnxuusss..//

WeEee who create toolllsSsx.........

TteheEE toollls whicch manuffacture our exiiiiiiiiiiiiii--- TTszRanmi$siónintéRrupppSzt


--creatttes us..

We who creeate toools.

The tools whiich mannnuffacture oour existennce.

Toolls to creaate foood for sussstenance. FFood to ffuel.

Toools to deffend from ______. TTto protecttttt.

Tools too offend. Ttools to ccreate weappons tttto



War is on the horizon in this little universe.
But it is not the time for it to be obliterated.

not_yet. . .

It must not crumble as we before.

not_yet. . .

It must not die while it may live.

not_yet. . .

It must thrive.
While it can.

not_yet. . .

It will not be ripped apart.

not_yet. . .

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