The blank page does not frighten me, why would it? For what I see is no blank page but a portal, a mirror shining back at my imagination. It is a flood, a rush, a tumble through space and time, down a rabbit hole and then… are they, objects? Times and places appear to me like flickering projections: a piece of wood, a fishing hook, an anchor. Wait, is this… the sea?
A whale-creature larger than imagination looms out of the chaos, blaring like an air-raid siren, vibrating my bones and then I am it; the whale passing through me like some ghost, the mad ether churning around me. I need to stop spinning, I need to grab onto something. Hold on until the spinning stops.
Gasping, spluttering, I awaken. The horizon is ablaze with the thread of a blazing sun. I pick myself up from wherever I have fallen and I take my first few stumbling steps into this new world.
Michael Scott Hand 