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  • I want to go to Iceland. It's a place my mind likes to go when I write. A place I encounter every time I listen to Sigur Ros. Iceland sounds like wraith calls from an icy lighthouse on Pluto. The place with the swirling alphabet. Even though the placement might be wrong, I can see Northern Lights roving through the sky. I can feel winter breathing down from its mountains on my neck. Lava flowing down, a nuclear sauce, from the ancient volcanoes. This music does not come from something we can see. Music is supernatural. Melodies from our Lord.

    I'm thinking about art right now. A thousand shades of blue swirling through my mind. I'm watching the story of a young girl named, Inocente. She's homeless, and gone through things that half of us cannot even conceive. She's an artist. She holds a life that I write of in my novel, and I learn every day that I write for her. I write for people like her, who've gone through so much that darkness should shroud the moon and paint the sun dusk. But they keep going, and I know it's because of Jesus, and His hope that blasts it all away. I write, and hope, and pray, that this crazed, peculiar, imagination of mine can be a fragment of light in someone's world. A living proof that all the tears in the world that make lakes cannot shut out God's voice. Cannot shut out the urge to jump into puddles, and grab all of the crayons out of a Crayola box in a fist to see each color coalesce. I pray that someone out there knows that they are miraculous because God made them to be.

    Iceland seems a place of peculiar miracles, like life. I want to take them all in.
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