It's not an absent God that I hate: it's a fickle one that torments me. Obscure messages are hidden in the winds itself, and ever since the Elders discovered my knack, I have been chained to this desk. It wouldn't be so bad if I was considered an oracle, but they look at me with dismissive glances, as though what I do is not really important, or that my energies could be better utilized in other more productive ways. I can't say I disagree with that, but here I am, laboriously translating the smallest whiffs of air in to hard commandments. The Elders use them sometimes, but mostly in times of disaster...I am so tempted to add my own voice to the mix, how would they ever know? But I cannot be certain that they are not watching...and I cannot take that chance. But here I sit, I turn my back on those who need me the most, and listen to the wind whisper in my ears, an eerily soothing hypnotic melody, that I must transcribe- from an alien or even godly tongue- to this language of the earth. And one day, the Elders will themselves see that the wind is everywhere, and to catch a part of it is but a single thread in the tapestry, and that we follow the thread without understanding truly the nature of things, in the hope that the single gust might lead us onto greater things. And then I'll put away the tools of my trade, freed from the burden of being the only one who listens to the wind. Wind writing.