In the beginning was the Word, and throughout the remainder of the day the Word trended heavily and was reposted with careless abandon. By the evening the Word had been generously liked and retweeted on spacebook, facecloud, fitchpork and a host of other brightly coloured toilet walls, imbuing it with an incredible weight and credence, or so people said. Anyway, Daniel missed all that cos he was in a basement battling through Mist Zone level 8-8 on the hardest setting. Uncertain and immediate was his future as his battered oaken carriage and its cargo of gold coins, armour and balloons careered uncertainly down the hill and away from Moon Castle at breakneck speeds.
Having missed the boat of the Word, and only narrowly escaping Fog Mountain intact, Daniel arose from his basement enraptured and anew. Now endowed with an eloquent sine language, he eschewed the Word and began to commune with the sodden and sombre buildings of the town. He spoke with great leaning houses whose sopping planks creaked mutinously underfoot and whose chimneys leaned and smoked overhead in impossible arcs. He secretly followed behind the tiny funereal processions that shuffled slowly through the labyrinthine streets and laneways of that place. He spoke with park statues and drunken railings. He asked impossible questions of bus stops and neon signs.
When I saw him last it was a cold, clear night. He was setting off with his lantern and travelling away from the town, going down to the sea. Here are the sines and symbols he left behind.