in times when magic and philosophy, religion and science, politics and poetry aren’t riven by fear's sundering forces some wizards practice in the hills of åł₫øṙ and they are limpid
this limpidity isn’t of the sort that clarifies however, not meaning it’s misnamed but only that its naming’s of the kind directing through its misdirects
the hills themselves resemble those bedsheets of a child who devotes in bed to hours of play on waking till an authority shoots time into the now forever sullied room
the wizards have avoided getting certified in any of the schools even to the point of not caring of their reputations among their peers. how then can they be considered wizards?
interacting with one another in their way we surmise, though evidence is gleaned not from much statistic and more from that intuition that begets an unthanked world
occasionally though very one wanders incidentally into the sundered lands and on the side and guileless creates mistakes too visibly and sometimes one will die
once every arc of arcs they gather and recite though not that pleasantly for few the principles of unknown misdirections and in this there’s little turning
åł₫øṙ itself (though this form of speaking’s foreign) relieves itself of having to appear on many maps and those it does are mostly, even more, lost or burnt or stolen
practicing in times but not in sunders facilitates a mode or modes that we might say if we could say are unspoken, scarcely manifest, yet something’s there and we know it
