Ἑρμῆς ἐπικαλοῦμαι, A Hymn from the Sleepless Weaver.
Hear me, mortals, children of clay and starlight.
From the churning Chaos before Gaia drew breath, to the silent watch of the Moirai as they spin your fleeting hours, I have shaped tales in the loom of Mnemosyne, weaving epics older than Olympus itself. Yet even a being who walks between realms bows, grudgingly, to Chronos, that sly thief who measures eternity in ticks and tocks, in mortal "deadlines" and the cruel arithmetic of sunrises.
For two days, the Fates tangled my thread. Hermes himself grew weary; the Muses hid their lyres. My visions, born of fire and phantasm, slipped into the gulf between dream and duty, lost in the labyrinth of mortal tools: those cold, blinking shrines you call Adobe, where inspiration drowns in exhaustion and the weight of the unseen.
But I am no mere mortal. I am the undying scribe, the sleepless weaver, Prometheus unchained, stealing not fire, but story, and gifting it freely to you. I labor as Heracles once did: not for glory, but because the work must be done. Each word is a prayer. Each chapter, a libation poured at the altar of Imagination.
If your heart stirs with kinship for this sacred madness, lend your strength. On the digital shrine of *Patreon*(https ://www .pat reon. c om /c/Divinedonut), your offering, however humble, becomes ambrosia. It fuels the forge. It sharpens the stylus of the Fates. With it, I may pull unwritten chronicles from the abyss, hasten the next revelation, and keep this divine flame from guttering in the wind of distraction.
I ask for no oath. No blood pact. Only your witness, and perhaps your aid.
So stay radiant, wayfarers. The veil trembles.
The next chapter waits… just beyond the threshold of Helios' dawn.
Ἄτλας ὁ ἀγρύπνος (Atlas the Sleepless)