Blessed be the writers, for they transcribe life and death and everything in between, all of it subject to their convictions.
Blessed be they, and blessed be their inner circles for the support and inspiration they provide them.
Blessed be they, and those who find their own tribes and use each other to make a difference.
And the bonds that bind us in camaraderie and friendship, blessed be they, and the words we use to describe them.
Blessed be the relationships which words cannot capture, try as they may, or must.
Blessed be the scribes and their entourages.
Blessed be the tribes and their keepers of lore.
Blessed be the rites and rituals, and the stories we tell, and the histories we create, and the cultures they permeate, and the entire notion of discourse, our exchange of words in ways that endure and inspire. Blessed be they.
Blessed be the fires burning inside the hearts and minds of the spirited. Blessed.
And the wise enough to be foolish. Blessed.
And the abandoned, blessed be the abandoned, who, in their solitude, find company and grace.
And the word, all of it, written, spoken and unspoken, poetry or prose.
Blessed be the Word.
In the beginning was the Word.
Blessed be the ones who command it.
Blessed be the authors.