Metamorphosis of ephemeral hills sends liquescent streams burbling until, swashing, they rush into linear caverns of uncertain destiny.
Narcissus-X ponders: What fate awaits words. After mind forms and fingertips press in digital reality, where do they go?
Do words wait: patient, passive, til they are read?
Do they weep in dark servers?
Or are they mere crystallized essence of Narcissus-X, flashing into metaphysical impressions on distant screens?