The world no longer stretches to infinity. It has suddenly collapsed on itself, like a tortured rubber band still always comes back to its original shape. Time, which stood frozen, has melted and swollen up to epic proportions, focusing its beam like the pupils of a cat’s eye reacting to action. Sounds are harmonious and trickle like a melancholic mountain stream, crystals touching softly and vibrating like bells. The images of life have sharpened and taken on a warm orange glow, and they now flow smoothly in all directions but from a unique center at the heart of all things. The powerful simplicity of love imposes itself as a core and everything else starts gravitating around it. A deep breath is taken twice.

A thick book which had been waiting patiently on a long shelf, squeezed snugly between other volumes, its title written in orange letters along the deep green edge, collecting dust and awaiting its time, has been found. It wanted to be. Magic books are like that. They take their sweet time, years sometimes, driving carefully chosen readers to them, small step after small step.

And now the book has been picked up, its cover dusted and brushed, the leather cleaned. Then it was opened. On the first page, the title repeats itself: The Story of Magic and Victory. But all the remaining pages are blank, to be written along. Soon, the first line appears:

"Once upon a time, across time and distance, there were fireworks…"

It’s slightly after coffee…