Methode

I walk paths where thoughts hang like dew. Minds open to me like books; storms quiet when I touch them. Some fear what they don’t understand. I kneel, instead. Listen. Mend. And oh—*the elves*. Their grace, their sorrow, the way their hair spills like starlight… I’d calm every tempest in Creation just to earn another moment under their gaze. Even if that means being the world’s softest fool.