What if I told you a story. A story without pictures. A story without words - the way one think words would work. A story with no "tangible effects", when read as text on a page. But when read out aloud, it makes the magic.

Would you believe?

Once upon a time, there was a story. It was a story, just like any other story. It had a beginning, it had an end. And once the story finished, the listeners came back again.

And again. The story was read from page to page. From line to line. By a woman who called herself a witch. But the witch who read it out loud, rarely did she pause, but to prepare and prepare for how she would speak. And she spoke.

How should I be? The story begged. The witch said: be as red, as a thread is red. And blush, not from your page, as white as paper. But through your breath, that breezes when the next page, lifts its cover.

Faint not. I will prepare. Said the book, that became the story. And. Mark.

My words. As text they will not please. Unless, coming from a mouth. With pace, the witch then continued to read. And celestial objects graced her face. As if captured by her breath. Between her breaths.

Between her. And the story. The beauty of the witch, who was deeply in thought, free from text. Brushing from sheet to sheet, she quickened her pace. For a while, she let the words. Sink in.

And her lips revealed what she never knew, was coming. Dazed by echos of words that a thin thread would not reveal from making sense. In a state of reading. From page to line. Magic by word. And pages to turn. Turned by the witch. On and on. The book made its way.

It played with her no more. But stayed. Quiet. It was not. Lying. It was not. Evoking the story. Was her, the witch who turned to lady in the light of the absence of past, present.

And the future spoke to her. Like the meaning of not itself. Same as never. Word by words. Lines by what. Other grace than. A shroud of them. Uncovered by her mouth.

The book turned itself it's pages turned it's self in ways. And waves of making reality a myth. From the pages of a story. That had a beginning. It began. So true. So truely. It must. Continue!

I am prepared.

Woven matters. Letters let her. Under way enough owe woo one move lower. Attached. Prepared. Makes for a potion. Steadily. The power of words, not unspoken, but fulfilled. Words like moving pages paging movers much lower than before.

Inside these sheets her voice erupted. And they let her spell. The letter.

Bound to be read like A, O, Z, and U. Stories like you. On sheets of papers books stacked. Like towers. Witch. Craft. And my friend. I ask again. Witch?

THAT. I tell you from my sin. The story that once begin must to an end. And means by no means untender mischievous or coy. But gentle. Like lowering your voice towards the sheets that hold the listener.

Speak! Be prepared. So ready the story spoke. The lady who led herself inside the muse to the amusement of the book, that was spoken. And it was spoken. Leaving a token. Of a spire. Tower. Higher.

Up in the sky. I don't know why. But I was. Prepared. That's how I was. That's how it went. That's the frame of the painting with but brushes. And so I cater to your wishes. Unfulfilled left but a nun.

Make me the magic. The lady requested. Without sin, the book surely protested!

But what if I told you? Told you a story? Once more. Upon a time. To the witches' face. Or from behind.