Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

Those who write seldom die from pain. Survival is the only option for them. For only things that make them sane, things like light, stars, and anything else that dazzle in a full moon, will make them fertile beyond the night. These children of the sun and soil, whose bright depths rise silently still. These souls are made of frames sturdier than steel. For where their words flow, their dreams flow, even if pressed to the wall. They write, dreaming back, visioning stars. Their dreams light flowers full of ambitions.