chuchisushi
there is nothing standing between you and oblivion but the barest tetherings of your own mortal control - the wind whips at your hair and brings tears to your eyes from the sting and it feels like dying and like rebirth and like nothing and like everything in the void.
the tiny voice at the back of your head whispers, 'jump.'
he works from a base that no-one else can see, shaping the world underneath his hands in the strings of light and thought that bend to his will, written too-bright and reflecting in too-wide eyes - he thinks and he /is/ and it will destroy him.