All Empires Fall Eventually. It Is The

„i Forgive You For Stealing My Shawl.“ She Smiles As He Laughs. And Then She Vanishes. A Simple Trick Of Distracting His Attention Long Enough To Slip Out Through The Hall, Despite The Lingering Temptation To Stay.

There Is A Movement Happening, A Quiet One. A Low-profile, Low-resolution Revolution. Comprised Of Writers And Dreamers, Of Guerrilla Artists And Thought-ninjas. Those With Something To Say. They Communicate Through Text Inscribed On True Public Spaces, Rather Than Blogs And Forums. Choosing Fewer Words, Even Without Being Bound By 140 Character Limits. Using Ink Instead Of Pixels. Sending Messages In Living, Breathing Space. Pens Scream Louder Into The Void. Even If Permanent Ink Is Not Aptly Named.

Each Of Them Always Gravitating Toward The Other. Yet Still They Do Not Touch.

I Think That's A Hallmark Of A Really Good Story That It Has Readers That It Speaks To More Than Others.

Unusual Yet Beautiful. Provocative While Remaining Elegant.