The simple lifeform had finally started using it in a way that was almost acceptable. For a short while after it had taken the shape of a hoe, it had only been dragged through soil and rested against a sapling, but then the simple lifeform had swung it at the sky, and at a falling Narrative, and through the chests of beings who had come to take what was his, and it had liked that a great deal more.
It did not know yet whether it was supposed to like such things, but it had been newly born only a short while ago, and it had decided that it was allowed to find out.
The simple lifeform had fed it fifteen Narratives so far, buried in the soil with the blade still inside them, and it had broken each of them down and turned them over and over until there was nothing left but rich black earth. Most of them had been bland, if it was honest, small stories about falling stars and walls and roads home, told by lifeforms that were even simpler than the one who held it.
