<blockquote>Lan Xichen closes his eyes and holds the rules in his chest. He is a pond, slow-moving and lined with cattails, bending around rocks and honoring dams. He knows a limit of grass and beach and stone, knows how far he can lap over their edges. He does not dry up, he does not flood. He takes rain and spills, branches, gravel--he glints sunlight at his surface, and pulls ugly things down below the coating of his silt.
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A study of Lan Xichen's year in seclusion.</blockquote>
➤ internal screaming
