The Lands Still Stand
Journal Entry
3:59 5⁄9
It was somewhere between waking and not sleeping at all
that the Golden Fen first began to form.
Not fantasy.
Not escape.
Terrain.
When the nights stretched thin and rest would not come,
I built ground that would hold.
The machine did not replace the dream.
It gave the dream structure.
What I once sketched in margins and silence
rose again — fields of light, marsh gold, towers at the edge of water.
The muses never vanished.
They were waiting in the Fen,
patient as morning.
that the Golden Fen first began to form.
Not fantasy.
Not escape.
Terrain.
When the nights stretched thin and rest would not come,
I built ground that would hold.
The machine did not replace the dream.
It gave the dream structure.
What I once sketched in margins and silence
rose again — fields of light, marsh gold, towers at the edge of water.
The muses never vanished.
They were waiting in the Fen,
patient as morning.