Bring your own salt.

A tall man, clothed all in white, a golden mask covering his face, sat across from the blue-robed Keeper. "I do not think I can carry out the will of the Guardians,” said the Keeper. "The gravity of this task – I am barred from sleep, mostly, and my dreams – fevered, sick with anxiety..." "You doubt the clarity of our vision?" asked the golden mask. "No, it is not that. Rather, its...utility. I am wracked with uncertainty. The future you predict, that you have seen unfolding as fact – I cannot swallow it. I see so many avenues for error; human error. There are too many ways to derail such a glorious dream, it is – it is too easily maligned, too easily bent to run counter to its intended path." "You think we plan harm?" "No! Again – it is not your intentions I question. Your intentions are...beautiful. But intentions are only words! Their manifestation, through action – this is an entirely different beast." "Kee

The farmer tills and tends the earth, her harvest feeds our bellies The writer, well, he feeds our souls and that matters deeply too With fickle seed he sows a yield we’ll never touch or see, yet careful please don't blunder here thinking his crop will never be. Farmers mend fences They set traps to keep the wolves at bay Negotiate with neighbours' need And keep the house in order, as they say, in one piece. Writers, though, they take this peace and wander the collective Conscience This is where they reap and sow, producing stuff of ineffable nature: still food for mind, sustaining thought, which must be chewed with eyes, and gulped by ears, and viewed with open, open open Heart. The farmer needs her man, the writer, as he needs her nurturing embrace They share in laughter, under blankets, there they've made balance so few mammals ever do thei