priestjordn

There once was an old fisherman who lived on the shore of a lake surrounded on every side by towering mountains. This was no ordinary lake, of course: it was fed by a single waterfall from the heights of the cliffs, and as its waters flowed in, they brought with them all the lost keys of the world, which flowed into the lake and piled up in its unfathomable depths. This fisherman had a certain gravity about him, as if it were not his surroundings that affected him, but he that impacted them: wherever he walked, the air and earth were thick with intention, as if they were waiting for his instructions. Each day, when he had finished cleaning